


Band of Sisters

by Brannick_The_Bard



Category: Adepta Sororitas - Fandom, Sisters of Battle - Fandom, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23613481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brannick_The_Bard/pseuds/Brannick_The_Bard
Summary: In the far future, Sister Constance De La Concordia struggles to do her duty while trapped by the schemes of the Inquisition and her growing attraction to the potential heretic she has been sent to  judge.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 24





	1. Mission of Penitence

**Band of Sisters**

**A Tale of the Far Future**

**by**

**Brannick The Bard  
**

_In the grim, darkness of the far future,_

_there is only war..._

Constance floated, nude, in the recovery gel, listening to her breathing in the respirator strapped to her face, and remembered. The nutrient rich, not  _ quite _ non-Newtonian fluid supported her as it fed the synth-skin that had been applied over eighty percent of her body. It covered seven holes in her torso that traitor small arms had managed to penetrate the ceramite of her armor, due to it's weakened state. Both legs, that had been badly burned in the explosion that had weakened her armor enough for small arms to penetrate it, were now as shapely and fulsome as they had been before she'd started the battle.

Constance chuckled at her folly, and regretted it as she was still quite sore. Using the helmet as a blast shield to be able to stand on the shape charge and get out of the tunnel before the explosion had leveled it had mostly worked. It had thrown her high enough that the last gasps of a jump pack she had scavenged off a dead Space Marine pulled her clear of the pit and tunnel system that was infested with the chaos spawn that had been leading the people into heresy. It had broken both of her legs and set her on fire, but it got her clear of the nightmare of fire and chaos below. She was alive enough that Sister Melissa of the Order of the Cleansing Water had had enough to 'work on' as she had put it to keep her alive and get her to a hospital ship. Still, the Heretics had been purged, the nameless planet they had been on was once more in the fold of the Imperium of Man, and Constance De La Concordia lived to fight another day for her Emperor.

“I thirst,” she muttered into the mask and the servitor heard, pressing the control to extend the tube to her lips so she could drink. The water was cold, and had the soft, citrus tang of nutrient additives that burned her throat a bit as she swallowed them. Constance was fifty, though the body that floated in the gel didn't look like it was thirty yet; her breasts were still high and firm, her muscle hard and strong from years of training and exercise, and every month she was reminded of her body and it's more basic needs no matter what she was doing other wise. Around her head floated a halo of ebony tresses in the fluid without a trace of gray so that only her deep, endless blue eyes gave away her age as someone far older than the face they looked out of.

In the gel, she hummed her favorite hymn and forced herself to remember every mistake she had made, and the Emperor knew there were many to remember. She remembered realizing they had lost the element of surprise and the sin of her pride deciding to continue with the operation. She remembered her hesitation when she had first entered the city, seeing the terrified face of the little girl and her mother, begging her for mercy. She remembered how heavy the bolter in her hand had felt as she stared into the eyes of a girl, not more than five in the arms of her mother who was terrified of seeing the end of her short life.

She remembered giving the order for the sisters under her command and the guardsmen they accompanied to restrain their hands against the populace, to use mercy instead of purging the heretics with the fire and bolter blasts they deserved. She remembered comforting the guardsman, a girl not yet twenty, as she died, her legs and pelvis destroyed by a land mine, as her cries of not wanting to die became less and less frantic, until they finally stopped altogether. She remembered the rage of her squad mates as the rebel who had planted the mine was dragged before her, and she saw again the little girl and her mother she had spared days earlier. The hymn died on her lips as the first tear wormed its way out of her eye against the gel onto her cheek.

Constance remembered the flash of the muzzle blast in the girls eyes as she executed her mother, and then the girl.

In the gel, Constance De La Concordia, Sister of the Adepta Sororitas, Palatine of the Order of the Valorous Heart, wept for her sins and begged the Emperor to forgive her. Because as she cried, she couldn't be sure if she wept for the guardsman, cut down in her prime in the Emperor's service or the little girl born into a heresy she had no control over, or for herself for not knowing.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Mission of Penitence**

Canoness-Preceptor Abigail Winters looked out the window of her office that over looked the convent's ornamental garden. The Convent of the Healing Heart had been established on Banudan for a thousand years, making the buildings old and comforting to the sisters who came here to convalesce and recover from their wounds. Physical wounds, of course, were much easier to heal than mental ones. Abigail, honoring her vow to the Canoness-Preceptor before her, was diligent in the upkeep of the garden, with it's flowers and trees from a thousand different worlds. She found it was of great aide to the sisters whose minds were troubled to sit in the beauty of flowers and reconnect with the life that they fought to protect.

In particular, Abigail worried about the woman she watched now, dressed in the pure white robe of a supplicant, her raven's wing hair setting her apart as she knelt on the earth and tended the rose bush before her. Winters was purposefully ignoring the Inquisitor in her office behind her, a loathsome, oily man with the face of a ferret who still managed to appear to be a boy, wearing his father's uniform. Finally, after many minutes of watching the other woman tend the plant, Winters made up her mind. “She's not ready.”

“Reverend Mother, surely...” the Inquisitor began, but she silenced him with a soft gesture.

“Don't speak,” she commanded. “For two hundred years, I have served here and tended to the sick of body and of mind, and I tell you, Sister De La Concordia is not up to a mission of this magnitude. And if you force my hand, Inquisitor, if you disregard the warnings I give you, all that you fear may come to pass. How will you explain _that_ to the Inquistorium?”

The ring of boots on flagstone caused a chill to run up the Canoness-Preceptor' spine as the Inquisitor crossed, unbidden, from before her desk to standing beside her at the window. “If you can document some physical or mental defect that makes Sister De La Concordia unfit to serve her Emperor, then I will depart at once,” the nasty little man declared snidely.

“So, either I ruin the record of a Sister with thirty years of solid, meritorious service, or I risk the fall of an entire system because you have fixated on Sister De La Concordia?”

Abigail felt the oily smile on his pinched face. “My conscience is clear. I sought the best sister for this mission and her name was chosen.”

She turned to stare icily at the hatched faced man under the wide brimmed service cap. “If I thought for an  _ instant _ I could make a case of your being a heretic or a mutant, or a traitor, I would kill you with my bare hands right now.” The pinched smile got wider.

“But as I am alive, you admit my motives are pure and my logic unassailable. The Rite of Selection chose Constance De La Concordia. The _Emperor_ chose Constance De La Concordia. Who are _you_ to defy Him, Canoness-Preceptor Winters?” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “So, let us go and you can introduce me to the Palatine.”

“Sit,” the Canoness-Preceptor commanded, raising an imperious hand to point at the chair before her desk. The Inquisitor realized the time for pressing his luck had ended, and so bowed before he went to the chair as commanded. “I shall return,” Abigail finished, as she swept out of the room and closed her office door firmly as she did so. “Watch him,” she commanded her adjutant, then tried to dismiss the revulsion from her mind and walked down the tower steps to the cloister and its entrance to the garden. The heavy air of the Convent became light as the competing smells of the flowers and the soft song of birds greeting the Canoness-Preceptor as she walked lightly through the garden, nodding to the Sisters of her Convent as she did so. Finally, her feet brought her to the body of the sister she worried about and she stopped to breath in the delicate perfume of the roses.

“ _Ave Imperator_ , Canoness-Preceptor,” the Palatine greeted as she most humbly subjugated her self, kneeling on the soft grass at Abigail's feet. 

“ _Ave Imperator_ , Palatine Constance,” she replied, then reached down to gently pull the younger woman to her feet. “Will you walk with me, Sister?”

“Canoness-Preceptor, again, and most humbly, I entreat you to grant my request of Repentia, that I may atone for my sins.”

“Do not make me scold you, Constance,” the Canoness warned, taking the other woman's elbow and directing her deeper into the garden.

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Constance replied, unknowingly choosing, as the Inquisitor had, to use the old title for the Canoness-Preceptor.

For a long moment, the women said nothing, merely walking through the garden slowly, before at last Abigail said, “Mistakes are not sins, Constance. Rarely are we allowed the easy road to atone for them. You confessed your faults to me, and I absolved you of them. We shall speak no more of this.”

“Yes, Canoness-Preceptor.” Abigail took an appraising look of the woman next to her. Winters' hair was white now, and there were lines and wrinkles even the greatest rejuvenation treatments could not completely wash away, but despite that, she saw herself in Constance De La Concordia, and that warmed her heart. She only prayed that the younger woman was as tough as Abigail had been at her age. The Canoness reached into the small purse the hung from her belt and handed something to the younger woman. 

“What do you see?”

Constance looked down at the object in her hand and, at first blush, started to laugh, thinking it a child's toy shaped like a bolter pistol. Then the weight of the object in her hand told her it was far too heavy to be a toy. Training took hold and she began to treat the object as if it were a live weapon, and despite the magazine well being empty she pulled the action open to insure it was safe. “What is this?” she demanded.

“It is a Bolter,” Winters declared simply.

“I've _never_ seen one this small!” Constance replied. She found the grip comfortable in her hand and it pointed naturally, as she raised it to look down the sights. “Was it recently found? It's in magnificent condition.”

Abigail's gray eyes found Constance's blue ones. “It's  _ new _ ,” she declared with great weight. It took only a moment for the gravity of the statement to pierce Constance's mind and her eyes went wide with shock as she quickly lowered the pistol as though she had been brandishing a state treasure and looked about to see if she had been seen. She looked again at the device, reading in High Gothic what had been stamped into the steel of the Receiver.  _ Imperial Arms Model of 111 M42 _ and  _ New Atlanta, Thuria _ on the other side.

“Do you mean...?”

“I mean, _new_ ,” the Canoness told her. “For the first time perhaps since before the Emperor sat on the Golden Throne, a new design has been made into a new device.”

“But...but, surely the machine spirits...”

“I can be sure of nothing,” Abigail told her sister. “Save that what you hold in your hands works. I've fired it myself. It's only forty caliber, not as strong as even our Cherub Pattern pistols, but I can shoot it out of my armor...”

“By the Emperor!” Constance swore softly.

“And it's half the size.” The Canoness sighed and looked away. “Listen to me very carefully, sister. A year ago, Duke Cameron of House Wren, became the Sovereign Prince of Planet Thuria. As soon as the ink was dry on his accolade of principality he began to reach out to members of the Adeptus Mechanicus, to make forge worlds on the moons of Thuria. Thousands, perhaps millions of the Adeptus Mechanicus have flocked to his banner. Now, the Inquisition has discovered _that_.”

Constance looked at the pistol in her hands, then handed it back to the Canoness who returned it to her purse. “The Inquisition thinks Duke Cameron is a heretic? Why? If he has found a way to coax new designs from the Machine Priests he would be a Hero of the Empire!”

Abigail arched an eyebrow at her patient. “Or a fool, who perhaps thinks he could challenge the Emperor.”

“I heard whispers of problems on...my last assignment...for months before we even began training for our operations to cleanse it, but I've never heard of this Duke Cameron. Suddenly his loyalty is in question because of that device, or is it the jealousy of others wishing his success was theirs?”

Winters sighed and realized why the Rite had selected Constance. “Never forget that Jealousy is the first paving stone on the road to Heresy,” she cautioned the Palatine. “If Cameron's loyalty falters, or, if he is the victim of evil council, he has just developed a weapon that every Guardsman can fire. This won't defeat our armor in a single shot, but concentrated fire...”

Constance crossed her arms over her chest. “I'm not an Inquisitor, I'm a soldier, and arguably a bad one. I don't know that I trust myself to be able to distinguish a heretic from a poorly spoken, but loyal fool.”

“The Inquisition feels otherwise,” Abigail replied. “A rite of selection was preformed, your name was selected. There is an Inquisitor in my office, right now.”

“Canoness-Preceptor, once more, I humbly beg that you...”

“Be silent!” the Canoness commanded and Constance's mouth snapped shut. She sighed, and let her eyes bore holes in Constance's as she took the younger woman by her arms. “You wish to preform an act of penance, to atone for what you consider your failings, here is your chance. I charge you, in the name of our Emperor that you are no longer a member of the Order of the Valorous Heart. Effective immediately, you are transferred to the Order Famulous and charged to found an Order Minoris on the world of Thuria. You may, in time and with success be promoted to the rank of Cannoness, however in the meantime, Palatine Constance, you will recruit from among the sisters here available for a new posting, or recovering at this hospital who are called to assist you in the establishment of a new order, and released by their sisters from care. Established on Thuria you will watch over Duke Cameron and House Wren. You will ever remind him of where his loyalty should lie, and advise him and his house so that he may become the Hero of the Empire he is destined to be.”

“I am _not_ an advisor, Reverend Mother, but...”

“It is done, Palatine,” Abigail declared. “The Emperor commands and you will obey.”

Constance bowed her head. “I hear and obey the will of the Emperor.”

Abigail let a little smile tug at the corner of her lips as she squeezed the arms of the younger woman. “The Emperor guide you as you guide House Wren. And Constance, if these weapons are being made in large numbers, be certain some find their way into the arsenals of our Order.” She paused for a moment, then smirked. “You wanted to atone, here is my judgment.”

“I'd rather face down a battalion of Orks with just a chain sword!”

“I know,” the Canoness said. “It would be easier.”

Constance swallowed. “So, not only am I to be an advisor, but a spy as well? How many masters do I serve on this mission, Reverend Mother?”

“You serve our Emperor, and our Order,” Winters replied. “That loyalty is most important. Come, I'll introduce you to the little snake that is biting your heel, and make you familiar with the sisters who are here, available for a new posting and can help you.”

* * *

Constance was a great believer in first impressions. She had, over her years in the Adepta Sororitas made certain whenever she arrived at a new posting, received a new commander, or any other official matter that her kit was immaculate, that she was early and there was no fault to find with her or those who answered to her. As the years went by, she began to judge her subordinates in the same manner and these judgments began to be born out on the battle field. A sister who couldn't arrive on time for something as simple as a meal would be late to rendezvous in combat, endangering all on the offensive line. A sister who did not look after her gear would always be down for maintenance at critical times. Thirty years had cemented to Constance that the first impression was who a person really was.

She decided she hated Inquisitor Jonas Merle the second she laid eyes on him.

Hated how slovenly he looked in his unkempt and ill fitting uniform. Hated the sneering, lecherous look on his face as she and the Reverend Mother returned to her office, a look many men without the sense to know how in danger they were to wear their fantasies on their face in a convent of Adepta Sororitas. Constance had been his physical equal since she was twelve. With thirty years of killing under her belt, she could coolly murder the nasty little man, while giving a block of instruction lecture to novice Sororitas in Schola on how she was killing him and why.

“Sister Constance,” he had drawled, his tongue too far out of his mouth in an unsettling manner. “It's a delight to make your acquaintance.”

He presented pallid little hand which the Palatine only stared at for a moment, then turned her eyes back to him without touching it. “Inquisitor, it is my duty to warn you, I have a strong feeling I will end up killing you. You may wish to request a different assignment before I have cause to act on my feeling.”

“Er, thank you,” he replied, withdrawing his hand. “It is said that to win the friendship of a Sororitas is the hardest accomplishment in the galaxy.”

“Indeed,” Constance replied with great weight. “You suspect Duke Cameron of heresy? Why?”

“Suspect?'' he asked around his off putting sneer. “The Inquisition suspects all. Only the dead are truly trustworthy.” His beady eyes darted between the Reverend Mother and the Palatine. “I see that Canoness Winters has already briefed you.”

“I have received my orders and I acknowledged them,” Constance replied. “If you have information necessary for me to complete my mission, speak; or not as you please. Withholding it will give me cause to kill you.”

“You require time to recruit your retinue?”

“I will have a team assembled and ready to mobilize within two days,” she declared.

The Inquisitor smiled. “Then we shall speak in two days. You may go, Palatine.” Constance stepped forward, crowding into the little man's personal space, head and shoulders taller than him. Pinned against his chair, he had the choice to sit down and be loomed over, or stay on his feet. He chose to remain standing.

“Never, _ever_ make the mistake of thinking I am subordinate to you,” she declared in a deadly quiet voice. “Untold millions have died because of nasty little men like you and the lies they whisper in the darkness. Walk in the light of the Emperor, or by the Golden Throne I will purge you, Inquisitor, come what may to me and I will sleep well that night.”

“The...the Emperor Protects!” he stammered.

“Yes,” drawled Constance. “Yes, he does.” She turned her eyes to Canoness Winters and noted the little smile of approval on her face. “By your leave, Reverend Mother?”

“My adjutant will conduct you to sufficient spaces as you may interrogate your new followers,” the Canoness declared. “Go in the Light of the Emperor, Palatine.” Constance turned, bowed to the Reverend Mother, and left, the white robes of a supplicant billowing around her feet as she did so. Abigail watched her depart, then turned and fixed her gaze on the Inquisitor. “I warned you,” she declared ominously.

Inquisitor Merle laughed an uneasy laugh. “If she is half as firm with Duke Cameron, my duty will surely be done!”

“That depends on his grace,” Abigail replied slyly.

* * *

Even sitting in her bed, Ruth was all but insufferable. Sent to the Convent of the Healing Heart to recover after being wounded, the new Battle Sister had been awarded the rank of Elohiem Advance over the Sisters in her squad for attacking the bunker that had them all pinned down, knowing she would be wounded in the process of it. The garnet that had been inset in the  _ fleur-de-lis _ that had been pinned to her pillow had pride of place as her two squad sisters entered the ward to visit her. “Oh, what a gold brick!” Mary declared. “One little scratch and she gets promoted!”

With great pride, Ruth polished imaginary lint off the award. “Oh, don't be jealous, Mary. I'm sure you'll measure up  _ some day. _ ”

“Oh, well, somebody had to be Gretchen's brown nose!” Jennifer shot back, managing to put down her friend and their squad leader. “It must be so tough eating ice cream and laying around while we're doing all the work!”

“What work?” Ruth replied with a laugh. “We're all on after action TDS!”

From out side of the ward, Gretchen discretely kept an eye on her squad where they couldn't see her smile at their antics and her pleasure at them beginning to gel as a team. Now they were blooded, the maiden outing behind them where they had found they could trust their training, their gear and their sisters. She was glad that Ruth was the only patient in the ward so they could be loud and blow off the pent up stress of having seen the elephant and come out the other side.

That just left where things were going.

Gretchen was concerned that soon after they'd arrived to check on Ruth on their way to their next duty station their orders had been countermanded and the entire squad had been put on detached service to the hospital convent. Something was brewing and Gretchen was concerned she had no idea what. She noted the sister hospitalier had returned to the desk that she was leaning on and asked, “Ruth's wounds serious?”

The nurse smiled as she shook her head. “No, Sister Superior,” she assured Gretchen. “Elohiem Ruth is fine. In fact, she will be transferred to normal quarters this afternoon, though she'll be on recuperative duty for a few weeks.”

“Thanks,” Gretchen told her.

The nurse looked at her screen and frowned. “Sister Superior? Are you Gretchen Wycroff?”

Gretchen turned to face her across the desk. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

“I have an alert in the system,” the nurse replied. “You're wanted in the administrative wing.” She turned and pointed out the window to a large tower about a third of the way on the other side of the convent. “It's in the tower there, room two twenty seven. It's marked urgent.”

“Thank you, sister,” she replied. With a final look at her squad, she said, “feel free to throw them out if they get too loud.”

The nurse smiled. “They're not bothering anyone.”

Gretchen nodded before she headed towards administrative wing, wondering what was making the butterflies in her stomach so active. 

* * *


	2. Friends and Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance begins to assemble her team.

“Here you are, Palatine,” the adjutant declared as she opened the door. “I've taken the liberty of flagging the system to have every sister on TDS report to you.”

“Thank you, sister,” Constance replied as she stepped past the younger Sororitas, and was surprised to find the room occupied. For the most part, the room was empty, a single desk, some miss matched chairs, obviously from Central Supply, a pair of Data-Slates and a lamp for the desk. However, standing at the window looking out over the mountain range the convent was built in was a sister in full battle armor, her hands clasped behind her back.

Adepta Sororitas are already physically imposing; the stringent entrance requirements make them rare specimens of humanity, uniformly tall, their training takes them into the upper percentiles of human ability. Even naked they are tall, strong and dangerous. But a Sister in her armor is an order of magnitude more so. The ceramite covered armor takes the physically imposing women into something all but inhuman. Designed to exaggerate their feminine forms, the armor was both dominating and yet strangely alluring. Most Sisters were over six and a half feet in their armor, which amplified their already great strength and made them able to shrug off damage that would kill a regular human.

The sister in the armor turned from the window, revealing a bald head and eyes heavy with burden and purpose. “Canoness Fiona!” Constance exclaimed, quickly crossing the room to embrace the other woman, armor or not. The armor clad sister of battle gently returned the hug and laid a kiss on Constance's forehead.

“Now, Connie, you _know_ it's only Sister...” the older woman chided her.

“I don't care what the Prioress declared!” Constance declared firmly. “You are a Reverend Mother!”

A bit of steel entered Fiona's voice. “Palatine, you shame me and my instruction of you...”

Constance took a step back and clinched her fists. “I don't _care_ Mother! It was wrong! You were guiltless and they all knew it! And I was even barred from following you into Repentia!”

Fiona smiled grimly. “Well, that was for the best,” she declared. “The Emperor sheltered me, and I am restored.” She ran a hand over her bald head and grimaced. “Mostly, anyway, but I suppose it will grow back. I see now my humbling was all part of the Emperor's plan, so that I would be here, now, when you would need me most.” She came to attention, gave the Sign of the Aquila and bowed. “Palatine Constance, humbly do I present myself for service. Command me and by the light of the Emperor I will obey. If you'll have me.”

“If?!” exclaimed Constance. “Praise be to the Golden Throne that you are here! Yes, Sister Fiona Vander, I accept you into my service and order.” The two women embraced again and Fiona allowed herself to be led to the desk and into the largest of the chairs that was only just up to supporting her and the armor. “Tell me everything,” Constance commanded. “Can I get you something...?”

Fiona waved off her former student's enthusiasm with a soft gesture. “I'm fine, Connie. After the trial I was shorn and divested, thrown in with a group of Sisters Repentia on the _Dauntless_. We went out close to the Great Rift on some shattered world. I don't know what we were there for, other than to give the sisters and myself an opportunity to die gloriously for the Emperor. I suppose I was lucky, I happened to be in a position to save a diseased little tick of an Inquisitor, Jonas Merle...”

“Oh, the Emperor hates me,” muttered Constance.

“I see you've met him,” Fiona laughed.

“Aye, and threatened to kill him.”

“He does have that effect on women,” she agreed. “Of my sister condemned, only I survived, and only thanks to that little monster. Even though our Mistress of Repentance was _also_ killed, the commission had no choice but to reinstate me. So, Jonas received new orders, and we came here. When I heard you were here as well, I saw the Hand of the Emperor in all of this. So, Connie, what does this little Inquisitor want with you?”

Constance reached out and took her mentors hands in hers. “Oh, Reverend Mother I have never needed your guidance more!” The older woman arched an eyebrow at being referred to by her old rank, then decided she would never break her protege of the habit and decided to let it pass. “Your Inquisitor has tasked me with becoming a Famula of the Planetary Governor of Thuria.”

Fiona frowned. “Famula?” she demanded incredulously. “Constance my daughter, you have many talents, but political advice is not one of them!”

“No, mother, this Prince is under suspicion of heresy. He has gathered all manner of Machine Priests to his world, to found new forges on his moons and mother, look...” Constance opened the pouch Canoness Winter had given her and showed the pistol within. “They have _created_ this.”

“By the golden throne,” Fiona whispered as she looked at the little bolter. “And it works?”

“Canoness Winter states she fired it herself. _Out_ of her armor...!”

The color left Fiona's cheeks so swiftly, even the scar that ran down the right side of her jaw went white. “My daughter, we are in a mine field...”

“Under orbital bombardment,” Constance agreed.

“Who else knows about this?”

“You, me, the Canoness and the Inquisitor to my knowledge.” Fiona considered this for a long moment, then stood and began to pace. “My gut tells me Jonas wants to falsely accuse the Duke of Heresy, but I don't see how that puts this into his control.”

Despite the obvious seriousness, Fiona smiled at her protege. “At least your gut took heed of my lessons! So, the first step in avoiding a trap is knowing its there. You're assembling a team for this new convent?” Constance nodded. “First, you must steel yourself, Connie and you _must_ lead. This is your operation. I will assist you as much I can, but your Sisters cannot see you lean on me.”

“I understand.”

Fiona smiled and came back over to the desk, gesturing at the slates. “So, let's see what we have to work with.”

* * *

Gretchen followed the directions off the wall map into what, to her eyes, seemed to be a relatively unused area of the convent. It seemed to be an odd place to be directing people, but she noted she wasn't the only TDS sister here. Finally, she arrived at the appointed room and knocked on the door. “Enter,” drifted through the door and with a final sigh to order her thoughts, she did so.

Inside, she found, as she expected, a somewhat dusty and mostly empty room. There was a desk, a few chairs, and two sisters. One was wearing a supplicant's robe, without mark or adornment to give any clue as to who she was. She sat at the desk, with eyes that were too old to look out of so young a face which declared she was obviously in command. Her hair was midnight black and was _exactly_ at regulation length at her shoulders, which bespoke someone with enough rank to buck traditions. Standing behind her was a sister in power armor. The armor was new issue, and very plain, having no awards or rank additions, but the woman in it was older than Gretchen, or the supplicant which also made no sense. She was also bald, which meant she had undergone a Rite of Repentance and _lived_ , which explained why she was subordinate to the other woman, but also made her easily the most dangerous Sister that Gretchen had ever personally laid eyes on.

Not knowing what else to do, Gretchen stood before the desk, gave the sign of Aquila and bowed. “Sisters, I am Gretchen Wycroff, I was told to report here.”

The beautiful woman at the desk consulted her Data-Slate. “Sister Superior Wycroff,” she greeted. “You've been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, and three battle stars, but you don't wear them?” The sister's tone was curious as Gretchen was wearing only the day service habit in red with only the crest of her membership in the Order of the Bloody Rose over her heart. It was a simple, humble garment, buttoning up the front with three quarter sleeves out from under a mantle and a lower section that could be worn as a skirt or culottes which was how Gretchen was wearing it.

Gretchen stood up and came to attention as some sixth sense told her this interview was important. “Yes, ma'am. The Emperor knows what I've done, that's sufficient for me.”

The supplicant's right dark eyebrow rose by itself up her forehead. “You don't think you inspire your sisters in your squad?”

A ghost of a smile pulled at Gretchen's lips. “My squad is...high spirited...without any help from me, ma'am.”

“So I read,” the other woman replied. Gretchen stole a glance at the sister in the power armor, who was watching, but staying silent, then back to the supplicant. “Stand at ease. Your Celestian speaks highly of you and feels you have a bright future in the order. Are you up for a challenge?”

Gretchen relaxed, but kept her posture formal enough to be respectful. “I am prepared to answer the call of my emperor,” she replied. “At the risk of sounding brash, ma'am, I am not here for a career, I'm here to make a difference.”

Constance steepled her fingers as she considered the younger woman. “So, you're on a Crusade?”

“No ma'am. Crusades are beyond my pay grade. I'm here to do my service and, I hope to spread the light of the Emperor to those trapped in darkness. To succor the afflicted and afflict the evil, purge the heretic, burn the alien and destroy the traitor.”

For the first time, the sister in the armor chuckled and spoke. “Sounds like a Crusade to me.”

Wycroff stole another glance at her, then back to the supplicant. “Permission to speak freely, ma'am?”

“Speak your mind, sister.”

“Ma'am, I come from the Schola Progenium, not because I was an orphan, my parents are alive; they didn't want me. My Drill Abbess didn't ride me, she ignored me, because she thought I wasn't worth the effort. She thought that because I had parents, I would fail on purpose to go back to them.”

“But you didn't want to?”

Gretchen fought down her disgust. “They didn't want me, why would I ever want to see them again? I wanted to be a sister, to earn my place and be among those that wanted to be with me! I've had to do more my entire life. When I was brought into the Order of the Rose, when I said my vows, I swore to the Emperor that I would never forget the favor he showed me. That I would comfort those in the same way I hadn't been, and that I would smash his enemies in eternal gratitude for the chance I got to take advantage of. If ma'am, you're looking for reliable sisters to have your back at whatever secret mission you've been given, if I can fulfill that oath, then I'm your girl.” Gretchen licked her lips, gave the Sign of the Aquila again and bowed. “Ma'am, humbly do I present myself for service. Command me and by the light of the Emperor I will obey. If you'll have me.”

The supplicant stood from the desk, came around it, and took Gretchen by the arms. “I am Palatine Constance De La Concordia. Yes, Sister Gretchen Wycroff, I accept you into my service and order.”

Gretchen beamed. “Thank you, Palatine. You won't regret it.” Constance returned the smile and rubbed the girl by her arms.

“I'm sure of it. Go get your squad mobilized. We'll muster to depart tomorrow. Until then, make sure your kits are up to scratch and your gear is ready.”

“Yes, Palatine!”

“And Gretchen?” The girl paused caught a bit off guard. “Make sure you all have your formals with you.” The girl blinked like she'd been struck between the eyes.

“Ma'am?” she asked, confused.

“You heard me, Sister Superior. Make certain you and your squad have your dress uniforms.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Dismissed.”

Gretchen left the room, elated, but perhaps more confused than when she entered. Either way there was plenty of time to wonder. For now, it was time to go be an NCO. Constance watched the girl leave and smiled up at her mentor. “Was I ever that young?”

“Younger,” Fiona replied. “But you turned out alright.”

“So, twenty five,” Constance declared after a sigh. “Think it will be enough?”

“The Emperor protects,” the sister assured her. “It'll be enough.”

* * *

One of the great joys of being at the convent of the Healing Heart was that it was a teaching convent for the Hospitaller Sisters. As the novices were taught the art of the healer, they were also being taught in the finer points of the Imperial Cult. Worship and benediction was just as important as bone setting and microsurgery. This meant the convent had a gifted choir to sing the evening vespers as the staff and guests of the convent took evening meal.

Constance bowed her head in thanks of the novice who filled her bowl with a simple mash of boiled grains and half loaf of the coarse, whole grained bread that was baked earlier that day. She stared at the simple meal, enthralled by the angelic voices of the choir. Around her, separate from the other sisters of the staff, sat the new members of Constance's little convent, each sister honoring their leader by wearing a simple supplicant's robe, devoid of distinguishing mark or heraldry. She patiently waited until everyone was served and Canoness Winters had blessed the meal before she picked up her loaf and turned to the young women sitting with her.

They were so young, most half or less her age and only Sister Fiona was older. Despite that, she held up the loaf and broke. “Sisters, we come from many different traditions, different orders, with different skills. Like humanity that we protect we are separate and yet we are all human.” She dipped the hunk of her bread into the gruel and took a small bite before presenting it to Fiona. “Now, are one family, one new order, united under our Emperor.”

Fiona took the bread from her and dipped it into her own bowl. “One family,” she declared as she took a bite and turned to pass it to the sister next to her. And so it was passed completely around the table each sister affirming her place in the family until each sister had eaten from the shared loaf.

“I am honored to lead you, in learning or in battle, in peace or war, it is my honor to serve with each of you,” Constance assured them.

“The Emperor Protects,” they replied in chorus.

Constance's smile of contentment was not long for her face, unfortunately. As she turned back to begin eating in earnest, she caught sight of the Inquisitor, Jonas, entering the hall. He was wearing clothing of a more civilian mindset, but at least these seemed to fit him better. A simple shirt and trousers tucked into high boots and a great frock coat over it, the rosette and column of his commission in the Inquisition around his neck and a smile on his face as he helped himself to a bowl and some of the gruel from the fireplace where it was being kept warm before heading straight for Constance and her sisters. “Well, here we are!” he declared, preparing to sit in the empty place opposite Constance and between a pair of sisters. “Ladies, good evening...”

“Move,” ordered Fiona in tone as quiet as it was menacing.

Jonas paused, one leg across the bench, the other still in the isle. “Beg pardon?” he asked, confusion on his face. The oldest sister at the table looked up, her face carved from stone, but she kept her voice low.

“Constance is senior of us, and so across from her is held in honor for the Emperor. You are a guest of this convent, show some respect and learn our ways!”

“But, I have to speak with...”

Fiona's eyes narrowed. “I have asked for your courtesy. Now I am telling you to move. If I stand you will _not_ like what follows.”

The Inquisitor's face fell, but he took up his bowl again and found an empty place further down the table. Constance sighed as she bowed slightly towards the bowl of simple fare. “Sisters, enjoy your meal,” she ordered quietly, then stood, before walking around the table to the side with Jonas and sitting down, close enough for conversation, but far enough to be safe from food and spills. “Normally, we eat in silence,” she declared. “If what you have to say is urgent, our tradition can wink at it. What do you need to speak with me about?”

His eyes shot over to Fiona who was watching him, then back to Constance. “Ho...how do I know what qualifies as urgent?”

“Is the convent on fire?” De La Concordia asked.

“No.”

“Are we under attack?”

“No.”

“Has the Emperor stood from the Golden Throne to call us to his side?”

“No.”

“Is there some medical emergency requiring action?”

“No.”

Constance stood gracefully. “Then what you have to say is not urgent and it can wait until after the meal.” She glided back around the table, noting the Canoness' eyes on her as she did so. As she crossed back to her side, and before she would have to turn her back to the Canoness, Constance gave the Sign of the Aquila and bowed before she returned to her place to finish her meal.

As she ate, Constance felt the Inquisitor's eyes on her, but refused to hurry her meal on his regard. She savored the simple, but hearty porridge until it was gone and she had given her bowl and spoon to the Novices who were working KP duty to stand with the other sisters and bow to the Canoness as she stood from the head table, took up her rod and gave her blessing to the assembled sisters. The women stood, bowing until the Canoness left the Great Hall then Constance joined the small crowd making their way to a coffee service that was being uncovered.

A line was established by seniority, allowing Constance close to the head of it, with the other Palatines of the Convent, where upon she drew a cup and added cream and sugar to her liking and returned to the table she and her sisters had eaten at. “Is it ok now?” Jonas asked, indicating the place across the table from her.

De La Concordia allowed herself a ghost of a smile. “We can allow that the Emperor has joined Canoness Winter for cigars and brandy now,” she declared, with a gesture of welcome.

“Speaking of,” Fiona declared as she returned with her own cup of coffee as well as a small cordial and pair of diamond sniffers. She placed an empty beside Constance's left hand, opened the cordial and poured a sample. “With the compliments of His Imperial Majesty and Reverend Mother Winter.”

“Don't mind if I do,” Constance acquiesced, taking up the sniffer and inhaling the aroma. “His Majesty is generous!”

“To say nothing of the Reverend Mother!” Fiona agreed with an appreciative sniff. The two waited until all of their little clutch returned from the service before Fiona raised her glass. “Ladies, His Imperial Majesty.”

“Long live the Emperor of Mankind!” the sisters retorted vigorously.

The liqueur warmed the Palatine's throat and was pleasantly sweet on her tongue, just a hint of syrup and a fruit she couldn't place, but enjoyed. Her mood warmed as well as her throat, she turned to the Inquisitor and declared, “Now, Inquisitor Merle, we are of a mood to hear your less than urgent needs. What is on your mind?”

“Well, I was curious,” he admitted as he leaned in, a hand reaching to an interior pocket of the frock coat to produce a small metal flask that he unscrewed and took a sip of. “Would these gir...uh, young sisters be the command staff for your legion?”

Constance's right eyebrow ascended her forehead. “Command staff? Legion? Are our wires of communication crossed, Inquisitor?”

“Well, surely we'll need at least hundreds of thousands to retake...?”

De La Concorida was not amused. “Retake? Are you planning a campaign, Inquisitor? I have a mandate to go to Thuria and found a new Convent Famulous and these brave sisters have answered my call. These are the extent of my forces for the foreseeable future. Further, I have no intention of pronouncing a Planatary Governor a heretic solely on your say so. So, tomorrow, this convent shall muster on the parade ground and board an Avarus lighter to be shuttled up to the _Vigilant_ , and taken to Thuria. There, we shall disembark and I shall present His Grace with my warrant to found my convent and he will have a choice. Reveal himself to be a heretic, or swear himself loyal to the Emperor and I shall begin to follow my warrant to guide him and his house.”

The Inquisitor paled. “And...if he announces himself a heretic...?”

“Then he will be purged!” the sisters of Palatine De La Concordia announced in chorus.

Constance permitted herself a wry smile. “Right then, right there.” She mulled her liqueur in the sniffer in lazy circles, then took another sip. “One of the virtues of being a warrior, Inquisitor, is the lack of worry about politics, public opinion or the idle gossip of the various noble houses. What's more, I am a servant of the Master of Mankind, so I have no use of sneaking and skulking in the night. I will enter through the front door of his Grace's manor in my armor with my head held high. I might leave on my back, but that does not matter; my duty will have been done.”

“Sororitas!” the sisters shouted.

“And, if he claims allegiance...?”

“Then begins the game anew, Inquisitor. Cat and mouse until I am satisfied of his loyalty.” She held out the sniffer for Fiona to add a new splash. “Or I am satisfied the time has come to purge him.”

“Just make sure you know who is who!” Jonas declared, causing some of the girls to laugh.

“Where is the fun in that?” Fiona demanded.

Constance's smile was evil as she emptied her glass and returned it to the table. “Sleep well.”

* * *


	3. Chapter Three  Into The Wolf's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance meets Duke Cameron.

**Chapter Three**

**Into The Wolf's Den**

The deck of the _Vigilant_ trembled as it left the Warp and returned to real space. This caused a thrill of sensation up the nervous systems of any sentient that experienced it, announcing the exit from the madness inducing realm of The Warp, back to Euclidean reality. Constance and her sisters were in the donning sanctum of the ship, set aside for the sisters to conduct their rituals and prepare themselves for putting on their armor. The sisters were all nude, softly singing the Call to Arms as they ritually cleaned themselves, being certain of body, mind and soul, should this be the day they meet the Emperor of Mankind.

The thrill of returning to Real Space was the warning, it was time.

As the klaxon ran through the ship as it prepared for a possible hostile greeting from the systems defenses, the sisters stood from their pails of holy water and blessed sponges. Next to each was the carrier for the armor, part safe to keep it from the wrong hands, part packing crate to move it when not being worn. Constance touched the palm plate that read her bio-metrics, checked for any sign of corruption or taint of Chaos, and when satisfied, unfolded itself to present the armor. First, came the link suit, a body glove that regulated her temperature, housed injectors of stimulants, pain killers and other medications as needed in combat, and served as the interface between her and the armor itself.

The massive Adepta Astartes, the fearsome Space Marines of the Imperium of Man, were surgically implanted with the Black Carapace, linking the brain of the space marine and his armor, but that technology had been lost. In it's place, the Sisters of Battle wore the body glove. It was a very thick garment, composed of bundles of fibers that could contract, just like human muscle. It sensed when the sister flexed her own muscles and thus augmented her efforts, allowing the Sororitas to compete on the battle field. They weren't as strong, or as fast as a Space Marine, but _almost_ was a very high bar indeed. Donning the garment was like pulling on a second skin, one that was _slightly_ too small and took a fair amount of effort. Once it was on and sealed at their throats, only the sisters' head was exposed.

Constance flexed her hands to be sure of the fit as she recited the prayer of spiritual armor. Next she removed the Battle Habit, a simple gown worn over the Link Suit. It was a tight fitted gown on her torso, made of ballistic mesh to give the critical parts of the link suit a bit of further protection, but was mostly serving the primary purpose of the armor, to emphasize that she was, in fact, a woman. The three quarter bell sleeves gave it a bit of dramatic flair, as did the fact that the garment ended at her waist, but the fabric trailed down front and back to a loin cloth in front and a butt cape in back that fell to the back of her knees.

Complete, she stood before the carrier and clapped her hands sharply before extending her arms wide. The carrier, with a whir of servo motors reared up like a snake about to strike, the armor pieces spreading out on their armatures, then they came forward being locked onto each other, over the glove and interfacing with it. Within seconds, Constance was encased with the armor once more the functional equivalent of an armored column from the history texts, all by herself.

From the carrier, she selected a pair of Bolter pistols the grips communicating with the armor to be sure an authorized user handled them, then the grabber field activated and when she touched them to her thigh plates where they stayed without need of a holster. The weapon selected, the carrier wrapped a pair of bandoleer belts around her hips, festooned with magazines for the pistols, then, as an almost decorative touch, it wrapped a Rosarius around her waist, laying her Inquisitorial Rosette on her left hip, showing her rank of the Ecclesiarchy of the Imperial Faith as an Adepta Sororitas; the ivory column rather like a capital I with a skull inset, a warning and her license to kill. Finished, she turned her back to the carrier and it attached the final piece of her armor, the back pack and it's micro fusion reactor that powered the armor.

The body glove contracted a millimeter, almost like a full body hug to complete it's diagnostic and, as she was not wearing a helmet, silently letting her know the armor was ready. Constance touched a control on her vambrace and read the holographic display that showed her all was well with her armor. “Hello, old friend,” she whispered with a smile. “Sisters! Let us show this Duke who the Emperor of Man commands!”

“Sororitas!” the little convent shouted back to her.

They turned and followed their Palatine out of the hatch and towards the hanger deck of the cruiser. Constance heard Gretchen's clear voice begin to sing the _Hymn to the Fallen_ , and at once all of the sisters joined in. As they passed the crew of the _Vigilant_ , the crewmen all bowed, some falling to one knee as they passed, their boots ringing on the armored deck of the space craft as they kept time with hymn. At last, as the final note of the hymn faded into the constant drone of sound on a star ship, they arrived at the hanger deck to find the shuttle was waiting on them already in the launch cradle.

Twenty minutes since the _Vigilant_ had returned to real space and not once had the deck trembled, or had there been further klaxons beyond the original call to battle stations. That was a good sign. They weren't being shot at.

Yet.

The Sisters entered the shuttle, each settling into the deployment cradle for the armor. While they could still sit in normal sized furniture, just, it was not particularly comfortable. And if the shuttle was hit, the deployment cradle would launch them from the wreck, hopefully before they were killed. The hatch sealed and Constance sighed. “I am the Hand of the Emperor!” she declared.

“His will shall guide my aim!” the sisters replied.

Continuing the benediction, her voice rang out, “I protect humanity from Evil.”

“By my might is it purged!” her soldiers replied.

“I know only victory and death!”

“Death that walks before me!”

“Neither Taint of Chaos, nor lies of Heresy touch me.”

“I am the Hand of the Emperor!” The shuttle lurched and the floor seemed to fall away from their feet. They were free of the _Vigilant_ and on their way to New Atlanta. As one, the compartment echoed with the clicks of bolts on weapons being charged and safety catches being engaged.

Overhead, the intercom became live and the lights went red. “Ten minutes to touch down, Ladies,” the pilot's voice declared. “Still all quiet and normal.”

“The Emperor protects!” the Sisters replied with one voice. Constance caught sight of Fiona on the other side of the compartment and her mentor smiled. Now it was just waiting to see if the bullets would fly or not.

The floor of the shuttle made itself known under Constance's boots. They were now well and truly in the atmosphere of Thuria and still the shuttle was flying straight and level. In her minds eye, Constance imagined it, an ungainly, boxy looking thing, mostly engine and cargo space with a side by side canopy perched on its bulbous nose, screaming through the air with surprising grace. The glow must be almost gone from the leading edges of the wings by now, and still the ship wasn't maneuvering.

_Maybe the Duke is loyal,_ she allowed herself to hope.

“Thirty seconds!” the pilot warned. “Still normal and calm.”

“Stay sharp,” De La Concordia ordered her convent. “No one will engage before me. If I engage, weapons free. Defend yourselves, but show restraint to those who may be the loyal subjects of our Emperor.”

“Aye, aye.”

The engines howled as their thrust was ducted to both slow and support the shuttle. The red lighting shifted to green and the deployment cradles snapped open. Free again, the Palatine rolled to her right, out the opening hatch and out of the shuttle. The pilot had foregone the space port, setting down in the courtyard of the Governor's Palace. Gun ships were orbiting, but so far, the guards were content to stand at attention. Before her, wearing mess dress ceremonial uniforms, but carrying live weapons, was a company or so of Imperial Guard.

Their leader, a captain, got to conversational distance and saluted, all well within form, but the fear for his life was plain on his face. “What's the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Constance pulled the Inquisitorial Rosette on it's lead, away from her belt to brandish it before the guardsmen. From the eyes of the skull, it projected a hologram of Constance's Identification and Warrant, large enough to be read from a hundred yards. “Gaze upon the Daughters of the Emperor, attuned to their duty before the Golden Throne and all those loyal to the Master of Mankind shall submit themselves before us!”

Satisfyingly quickly, the Guardsmen shouted, “The Emperor Protects!” and fell to one knee.

Her heart racing in her chest, Constance looked around the courtyard, but everywhere her gaze fell she saw only guardsmen on one knee, supplicant and faithful. Turning back to the company before her, she fixed her eyes on the Captain. “I am Constance De La Concordia, Palatine of the Adepta Sororitas, here to judge the loyalty of Duke Cameron Wren.”

The Captain saluted. “Palatine, I am Captain Joseph Tanner, faithful soldier of the Emperor of Man, commanding 'B' Company of the 112  th  Thuria Lancers. I affirm to the best of my knowledge the Duke is the Emperor's Loyal Subject.”

The raven hair dipped in acknowledgment. “Captain, your fealty is noted. Conduct me to the presence of the Duke.”

The Guardsmen quickly formed up into an honor guard, each man removing the power pack from his lazgun and returning it to the bandoleer on their uniform. The Sisters only relaxed slightly, their weapons still on their armor, but within easy reach to begin killing in a second. “Right away, my lady,” he answered and the group were ushered forward, deeper into the manor.

As they walked, Constance sub-vocalized the command codes to the gun ships, that, so far, all was well. This put a halt to the bombardment from the _Vigilant_ that would have started in two minutes, but everyone was still on a dangerously high alert. De La Concordia was very aware, mentally, of the procedures and kept them to mind so that a war was not started by accident. On her wrist, the green tell tale showed her that her suit was still talking to the _Vigilant_ and that the armor cameras were still transmitting without interference.

Captain Tanner lead her up the stairs on the far side of the residence and through a hallway of marble and baroque splendor with paintings of the previous Planetary Governor's sharing historic portraits of key battles in the history of the Imperium of Man in which subjects from Thuria had played a role.

It was mid-morning in New Atlanta, the hallways were full of functionaries and dignitaries, going about the business of governance, all of whom shrank back as the guardsmen with the twenty seven terrifying armored warrior women. The din of conversation died and only the sounds were of boots on marble and the dull clatter of weapons and armor moving against each other. Finally they arrived at the audience hall and, with a gesture from Constance, Ruth and Mary separated themselves from the convent, trotted forward and seized the doors, flinging them wide open.

Inside, the hall was a massive rotunda, at the back of which, on a dais, was a symbolic throne for the Emperor, who likely had never sat in it. Below that was a smaller chair for the Governor, but it also was empty. On the level of the rest of the room, before the dais was a desk and chair that had a terminal, data-slates, communication devices and a small crowd around a man just rising from behind the desk.

Like the ripples on a pond after a stone is dropped there were desks laid out around the throne which itself were other desks of the various dignitaries and nobles of the planet as well as representatives of the ordinary people, all turning, some what shocked to see what the fuss was. Constance strode boldly into the room and again held up her Inquisitorial Rosette and a subtle gesture keyed on the amplified speakers built into the armor so her voice echoed like a thunderclap throughout the hall. “Gaze upon the Daughters of the Emperor, attuned to their duty before the Golden Throne and all those loyal to the Master of Mankind shall submit themselves before us!”

The hologram of her and her warrant peered down in judgment of all in the rotunda as, slowly, then with gathering speed the various persons fell to one knee. “The Emperor Protects!” was an uneven chorus that rippled through the room as Constance strode forward, her sisters at her back, weapons in hand.

Constance allowed her eyes to sweep the room as she walked, taking in expressions from confusion and curiosity to fear and alarm, then she fixed her gaze on the man stepping from around the desk. “I am Constance De La Concordia, Palatine of the Adepta Sororitas, here to judge the loyalty of Duke Cameron Wren.”

She had not expected him to be so handsome.

The man was dressed in a tunic of dark blue over jodhpurs that were tucked into high boots that were spotlessly polished. He was fit, with a hint of strength under the tunic with dark hair that was going gray at the temples and clear, icy blue eyes. He had a square, honest face, tanned from time spent in the sun and lined with worry, but not old. It was the mature, masculine face of a grown man with the nod to a rakish youth of a thin, pencil mustache over his lip. “I am Cameron Wren,” he declared in a rich, melodic baritone. “Duke of Thuria and loyal vassal of the Emperor of Mankind.”

He sank to one knee and ritually opened his shirt wide, displaying an impressive chest and his neck in the most humble act of supplication. “If I have offered insult to his majesty, it was unintended. I beg, Palatine, whatever my fault, let me face that correction alone so that my people be spared for we are the Emperor's own.”

Constance towered over the man, surprised a bit at her reaction to him, but she kept her face stern as she brandished the Rosette before him. “Cameron Wren, you are accused of heresy, ambition above your station and conspiracy against the Master of Mankind. If you are guilty, renounce your crimes now that you may be absolved and receive his majesty's mercy.”

“Who slanders me, a loyal vassal to his majesty?” he demanded. “I proclaim my innocence of any fault or treachery against the Emperor, the loyalty of myself and my world to the Imperium, and I will testify with my body in open combat against any who has spoken these lies!”

After a moment of looking into the man's face, Constance made a decision. She lowered the Rosette back to her belt, then presented her left gauntlet and the image of the Imperial Seal worked into it as if a ring she wore over the glove. “If you be loyal, then submit yourself to judgment and kiss the seal of the Emperor.”

Slowly, he took his hands from the tunic and reached out, taking her gauntlet clad hand into his. He leaned forward and kissed the seal, then moved up slightly and kissed again the back of her hand. “If I am to die,” he whispered, “I die innocent and could ask for no more lovely of an executioner.”

Unbidden, Constance smirked as the smile she could not contain wormed it's way onto her face. At least the taint of Chaos had been removed as a possible crime to lay at the Duke's feet. Lies and false loyalty could still be lurking for Heresy or Treason, but the Chaos infected could never bring themselves to kiss the seal of the Emperor. That at least was reassuring. Clicking off the amplifier on her voice, she leaned down and whispered, “You are a single misspoken word from death, and you would play the Tomcat to your executioner?”

He looked up with a grin that he had doubtlessly used shamelessly his whole life. Part little boy with his hand in the cookie jar, part experienced raconteur caught with his hand in someone _else's_ cookie jar; it was clear he was a rake of the first order. “Death comes for us all, my lady, why not enjoy the wait?”

“That quick wit of yours is going to get you into trouble,” she warned, drawing him up off his knees as she did so.

“Or out of it,” he replied, then stood up straighter and raised his voice. “I submit to the Judgment of the Daughters of the Emperor and again state my claim to satisfaction upon whoever has slandered me.”

“So noted,” Constance assured him. “You have an office?”

“It's yours,” he offered.

“Lead on.” As she fell in behind him, she keyed the microphone and sub-vocalized, “ _Vigilant_ , condition alpha, one in custody.”

* * *

Jennifer clutched the grips of the Bolter tight in her gauntlet clad hand as she and Mary guarded the hallway they had been assigned. The young sister swallowed, her eyes fixed down the hallway, wondering when something, anything, would round it, intent on killing her. “What are we _doing_ , Ruth?” she demanded in a terse whisper.

Her squad sister turned, one dark eye towards her as Jennifer was captivated again by the contrast of her dark brown skin under the bowl cut stark white hair on her head. She licked her full lips and whispered, “I don't know about you, but I'm pissing my pants!”

“Steady,” Gretchen's voice commanded from behind them, “We're _Sororitas_ , ladies, we're supposed to be surrounded.”

The Governor's office sat at the junction of three corridors, this one Jennifer, Gretchen and Ruth were guarding, the main hallway they had arrived down that most of the squad was in a position to hold, and the side corridor with its access to the central stairwell the remaining girls were stationed on, some up the stairs, some down, so they hopefully had a means to escape if they needed to maneuver.

Jennifer was _very_ aware that if the sisters were forced to withdraw, she and Ruth were the furthest from the stairs and that fact itched at the back of her mind.

A door opened, revealing some functionary that it was all Jennifer could do to not gun the hapless fool down by reflex. “Go back inside!” she commanded. The Bolter's muzzle swept the man as he looked like he was about to protest. “Go back inside and stay there!” she snarled. The man went pale and shut the door which would not even slow down the rounds from the Bolter should she choose to fire it. “Gretch, if one more pissant opens a door they're gonna get to meet the Emperor!”

“At ease,” Gretchen's ordered softly. “We're _not_ weapons free.” The Sister Superior made a point to get eye contact with all of her squad. “We trained for this. Loyalty tests are just part of the job. The Home Guard outside didn't have anything that could take the polish off our armor, so every body calm down and soldier.”

“Aye, aye,” Jennifer muttered.

“What if they've got stuff that _will_ take the polish off on the way?” Mary muttered.

“The Emperor handles tomorrow, we worry about today,” Gretchen answered her. “Keep in mind, ladies, if this Duke is loyal this is our new home. Let's not start any incidents before we're moved in.”

“I say we purge them all and let the Emperor save his own,” Ruth declared.

“I'm sure he'll have some choice words for you, Ruth,” Mary shot back.

Gretchen sighed at Ruth's somewhat saucy retort and growled just loud enough that her girls knew she was at the edge of her patience. Silence settled on the squad as they kept their hall secure and Gretchen allowed herself a glance over her shoulder at the door into the Duke's office wondering if the Brass had it easier.

* * *

“I want to know who has slandered me,” the Duke pressed as he opened his safe, then stepped back to turn his attention to his terminal.

“You'll have your right to satisfaction,” Constance assured him as Debra, the security specialist stepped forward and began to go through the safe. “Assuming you're loyal, of course.”

“I am,” he declared again. “What is this about, my lady Constance?” His codes given to the terminal, he stepped away from his desk, to make room for the sister who busied herself with copying his files and notes. With three armored sisters in it, even the most spacious of offices seemed cramped.

From her haversack on her side, Connie produced the little Bolter pistol and laid it on his desk, it's action locked open. He stared for a moment, then his tanned face flushed with anger. “This?” he demanded, and for a moment, the genteel veneer slipped and a bit of temper showed through. “This is the prototype I sent to the Imperial Arsenal for bidding! We're prepared to begin production for the Emperor at the first sign of a contract! What _more_ notice could I have offered? It's not a secret! I sent it in myself!”

“Jealousy is the first paving stone on the road to Heresy, your grace,” Constance reminded him. “Did you honestly think an achievement of this magnitude would not hang a target on your back?” His expression was one of grim resignation.

“I _had_ hoped that I had sufficiently circumvented this by being so forthright.” He sighed and crossed his arms. “My mistake, obviously.”

Constance smirked. “Well, if it is any condolence, if...when...your loyalty is assured, the Adepta Sororitas will certainly be placing an order. A large one.”

“My shareholders will be thrilled,” he replied drolly. “And, what of you, Palatine Constance? Once all is sealed to the Emperor's liking you're off to the next world, the next people whose loyalty are falsely maligned?”

The eyebrow ascended Constance's forehead by it's self. “So eager to be rid of me, your Grace? Just a few moments ago you were willing to die for a few minutes of my company.”

He sketched a most elegant bow, despite the somewhat confined space. “My lady, moments with you are _certainly_ an easy trade for a life time, but my poor heart can only stand so much melancholy of being loved and left behind.”

Constance crossed her arms over the somewhat ridiculously large cups of the armor had worked into it to simulate her bust. In point of fact, they contained reservoirs of nutrient soup for the suit's wearer whose own bust was considerably flattened by the Link Suit. “Does your mother know what a terrible flirt and Lothario her son has become?”

“My poor mother is yet pining for me to settle down and give her the grand children and security of the blood line she is constantly reminding me is my duty. And I note my lady has side stepped my own question.”

“Oh, I imagine you'll be quite sick of me before too long, your Grace,” she replied as she took a scroll from the keeper on her belt and presented it, the official seal hanging by a ribbon from it. Frowning, he took the scroll and opened it to read. “My congratulations, Scion of the House of Wren, your fealty and service to the Emperor have been noted and your House has been assigned Sisters Famulous of this Mission to guide and nurture your House to the greater glory of the Emperor.”

The Duke's gaze held on her for a moment, then he turned back to the scroll to be sure he had not misheard or misread. “Well,” he declared after a long moment as he rolled up the scroll and returned it. “Certainly I can safely declare this the most memorable method of meeting a beautiful woman in my life! Would my lady do me the honor of dinner, this evening?”

Constance allowed her lips to smirk again as the Tomcat came out to purr once more. “I think, your Grace, shall be accepting _our_ invitation to dinner.”

“Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world!”

* * *


	4. Chapter Four: There And Back Again

_In the grim darkness of the far future,  
_

_there is only war..._

**Chapter Four**

** There and Back Again **

Captain Newberry, the commanding officer of the  _Vigilant_ was only mildly surprised that Duke Cameron had submitted himself for judgment, and that the sisters had shown sufficient restraint that he could. In his experience the person being 'tested' failed, violently so and then it was a matter of rooting out those who might take issue with that failure before moving on to the next world. He had to admit, watching the camera feed from Palatine De La Concordia's armor that she was a unique specimen of her order.

He had welcomed the Duke on board and set him up in a guest cabin as opposed to the brig, but neither man was uncertain of how short a leash the courtesy concealed. Still, the Duke was quite genteel about things and was making a great show of putting the best face on an unpleasant situation. He had ordered all planetary defense forces to stand down and had actually echoed the commands with the Captain in the transfer of power. Captain Newberry had needed to refer to the manual for the procedures for voluntary release of power as it had never happened before in his experience. Thus far, it had been a text book operation, the planetary defenses having accepted the commandeering of Captain Newberry and the  _Vigilant_ , and not a man had been so much as injured. 

Captain Newberry, of course, suffered under no delusion things were settled, this was the point where statistically speaking things generally started getting bloody. 

For the better part of an hour, he fought with himself on whether or not to lower the alert level onboard. If he took the ship from battle stations, the crew would relax. They would breath a collective sigh of relief and possibly, miss some minor indication of a betrayal from the surface that would cost all of them their lives. On the other hand, he could keep them on combat status, a hair trigger from explosive violence and someone might make a mistake, or an innocent navigational error be interpreted as an attack and tens of thousands of innocent lives might be lost.

In the end, he decided to follow Palatine Constance's example and brought the ship down to tactical alert. Enough tip of the sword to respond quickly, hopefully enough restraint to stop a mistake that would lead to tragedy. Satisfied he had done what he could do, the captain left his bridge to go have a word with his steward. He, evidently, had a dinner party to plan.

* * *

Jennifer sat in the day room, an ammunition locker that had been given over to sisters for their use, stocked with reclaimed and donated furniture from around the ship. It was so that the Sisters of Battle could have a place to relax and unwind, which was what Jennifer was trying to do, staring at a data-slate, trying to concentrate on the biography of Saint Mina, but found she had read the same sentence five times. With a sigh of suppressed temper, she dropped the slate to the little table before the over stuffed chair she was sitting in and took her temples in her hands. “Buy you a drink?”

Jennifer looked up in surprise to find her squad leader, Gretchen, sitting in the chair next to hers, a bottle of beer on the table next to her slate. “Sister Superior?” she asked guardedly.

Gretchen brought her own bottle to her lips and took a sip. “We're both off duty, Jen, it's just Gretch.” Jennifer reached out and took the bottle, finding it icy cold to her touch, and a soothing, vaguely wheat taste as it washed over her tongue. She couldn't quite suppress a grimace at the bitterness of the beer and Gretchen smiled.

“Your first?”

“Third or forth,” she admitted. “I think. I've lost track.”

Gretchen's bottle tipped up into her mouth again. “You'll learn,” she declared around her sip. “Took me forever to like coffee.”

“Coffee is proof of the Emperor's love!” Jen retorted as she forced herself to take another sip, which was not quite as bitter as the first had been. “Listen, 'Supe, I know I fucked up, today...”

“I didn't have to write any reports,” Gretchen replied. “I call that a win.” She paused as she took a sip of beer to examine Jennifer's face. It was a bit Tomboyish, more square than oval and she still had the bowl haircut of having graduated from being a novice, died white to symbolize the purity of her vows and soul. Many Sisters continued to dye their hair white, but Gretchen liked that their Palatine wore her natural hair color and decided to do the same herself. She already dark roots beginning to show under the milk white. Jennifer was still staring at the floor, but in reality someplace deep in her mind, the bottle clutched loosely in her fingers. “Something you want to talk about, Jen?”

The blue eyes came up, a haunted expression behind them. “How bad did it get for you guys, 'Supe? After I got separated, I mean?”

Gretchen shrugged a little dismissively. “Oh, we had a interesting dance with a Leman Russ the traitors got a hold of, but Ruth was the only one injured, and not badly. Why?”

Jennifer's face turned back to the floor. In a dull voice, she said, “When that wall collapsed, I tried to make my way around it, but the rubble was impassible. So I went out east, but the further out I went, the worse it got until I had completely lost sight of you guys. Eventually, I linked up with a Sister Hospitaller named Melissa. She was moving across the battlefield looking for wounded and so I figured I could do some good keeping her alive to help others.”

“I read your report, Jen,” Gretchen told her softly. “You did fine.”

The bottle tipped up for a long swallow and this time Jennifer's face didn't grimace. “After an hour, there was this  _huge_ explosion and out of this collapsed section of road comes a Sister clinging to the jump pack of a Space Marine. I had no idea how she'd gotten it off one of the dead Space Marines, or got it working, but it was the most hardcore thing I'd ever seen. She couldn't hold onto it for long, but it got her out of the depression before she lost her grip. She fell about ten feet from us, both legs broken, out cold and covered in some nasty  _something_ . I almost threw up from the smell, but nothing bothered Melissa. She just got to work on her while calling in an evac.”

Her face turned up to Gretchen, pale and almost vacant. “That's when this squad of possessed Heretics found us, or caught up to us. I think they were chasing Palatine De La Concordia. Have you ever fought possessed, Gretch?”

“I was there, Jen.”

“Yeah. They, they just keep coming, you know? I shot them and the Bolter blew them to pieces, and...and the pieces would keep coming...” She paused and took another sip. “Palatine Constance had a bolter/flamer combo gun, still attached to her armor. I grabbed it and...” She took a drink and whispered, “Humans smell _terrible_ when they burn.”

Gretchen reached out and put a consoling hand on Jennifer's shoulder. “Don't think of the ones you had to kill,” she told her earnestly. “Think of all the ones you saved by rooting out the Chaos and destroying it.”

“I was back there, Gretch,” Jennifer whispered. “This morning? In the hall, and the door opened; it wasn't that beautiful hallway. It wasn't a cushy office and some idiot in a suit, it was one of those monsters dressed up like a human wearing someone's _skin_ and I could _smell_ the bodies burning...” Gretchen took the beer from her squad mate and gathered her into her arms in a fierce hug. Her shoulders shook and Jennifer started to cry. Gretchen gently stroked her hair and let her sister cry.

“I'm here, sister,” she whispered in Jennifer's ear. “I'm here.”

* * *

From her kit locker, Constance gazed at her neatly folded Day Service Habit and wished she could wear it. It was a simple, humble garment and that matched her desire to be simple and humble, but, alas, it was not suitable for a formal dinner with both the Captain and the Duke. Fortunately, it was not so formal as to demand her dress uniform, so, with a sigh of regret, she dug deeper into her locker to pull out her Convent Service Habit. It was the more formal version of the Day Service, intending to give the impression of a Sister in her armor, it was in three layers, like the armor it affected. The base as a simple, black body suit that was close fit for her arms and torso, but in culottes below. Over this was the red Battle Habit with it's bell, three quarter sleeves and loin cloth bottom. Finally, there was a sleeveless black doublet in velvet that buttoned up the front with a high, rounded mock turtleneck collar to imitate the gorget of her armor.

Around her hips, at the bottom of the doublet was a Rosarius and Inquisitorial Rosette that hung at her left hip to denote her rank and warrant. Normally, on her left breast would ride the white Maltese Cross and Heart indicating her membership of the Order of the Valorous Heart. These had been moved to the bell sleeves of her Battle Habit, under the  _fleur-de-lis_ of the Adepta Sororitas to show that she had seen combat as member of that Order, but her Mission and Order Famulous had yet to receive it's official heraldry from the Convent Sanctorum on Ophelia VII, which was her Master Convent.

Finally, there was the collection of Medals and awards she had earned over the years. There were many tears fallen over this collection of precious metal and simple cloth, but there were happy memories as well. Certain of everything being in it's place by a final check in the mirror, Constance sighed and left the small, but coveted single cabin the Captain had given her and directed her steps towards the Wardroom. 

As it happened, the door to Duke Cameron's cabin opened just as she was drawing abreast of it and the Duke himself stepped out. As he was still a 'guest', he had been allowed to have his valet pack some changes of clothing for his stay aboard the  _Vigilant_ and was dressed in the green frock coat of Thuria's Home Guard detachment. It was certainly not in want of braid or medals, but was not as garish as some versions Constance had seen. In fact, she thought the jodhpurs and high boots the uniform seemed to favor let him cut quite a dashing figure. He caught sight of her and gave another of his elegant bows. “My lady Constance, a pleasant evening to you!”

Constance allowed her self to smile and preformed the Sign of the Aquila. “May the blessings of the Emperor shine upon you, Duke Cameron.”

“Humbly, my lady, I beseech you for the honor of your escort to dinner.”

De La Concordia glanced at him sidelong but took the elbow he offered with one hand and the pair continued their journey. “I presume you were loitering in your cabin hoping to catch me as I came by to pry information about your Loyalty Test from me?”

The Duke had the grace to be self deprecating. “Am I so obvious?” He chuckled and made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Well, I am understandably curious.”

“Your unflinching cooperation stands you in excellent favor, your grace,” Constance allowed. “I imagine the outcome to be to your liking, but we must still observe the proprieties.”

“Of course!” he acquiesced. “And in expectation of such golden outcomes, I already have my command staff looking for a suitable place your Mission can headquarter yourselves.”

“I'm glad the circumstances of our meeting will not strain our relationship unnecessarily.” 

The Marine, not an Astartes, but an Imperial Sailor Under Arms, standing guard by the wardroom door came to attention as they approached, then opened the hatch for them. Inside was Captain Newberry, looking very impressive in his Navy Uniform, not as dressy, perhaps, as Duke Cameron's but then, Duke Cameron didn't have a hundred thousand crewmen at his beck and call presently. 

Nathaniel Newberry did. 

The Captain was in the process of pouring himself a glass of tea from the small beverage mess to the side of the room as the stewards were still laying out the table. “Why Captain, you've out done yourself!” Cameron complimented, but Captain Newberry was nonplussed.

“Merely a trifle,” he retorted, sketching a shallow bow to Constance that she returned with a curtsy. “My lady must forgive us for being such terrible hosts.”

“I wouldn't dream of holding such honest effort in the service of the Emperor against you, Captain,” she replied. “In point of fact, I must agree with His Grace that you set a magnificent table.”

The Captain's great handlebar mustache twitched in what might be considered a smile. “I'm sure the men will be gratified by your delight, my lady. Here, allow me,” he stepped over to the foot of the table and held out the chair for her. Constance allowed herself to be seated, then turned her goblet over for the steward to fill with ice water.

“Will your officers be joining us, Captain?” she asked, noting the table to be quite small, and had only three place settings.

“Unfortunately, no, my lady,” Newberry told her. “I thought it best, considering where our conversation may drift, to keep the fewest ears in the room.”

“A wise precaution,” Cameron declared as he took the place at Constance's left hand, leaving the right for the Captain. “So, tell me, what of the rest of the Galaxy?”

“Oh, about what you would expect,” Constance replied. “Wars, rumors of wars, famine, deprivation, with little pockets of hope and good living.”

The goblet of ice water stopped halfway to the Duke's lips. “Oh, surely all is not so hopeless?”

The steward wheeled out a dish of salad and began to fill bowls. “His Grace has the benefit of living on a relatively remote world in a peaceful sector,” Captain Newberry declared, taking up the pepper mill and offering it first to Constance. 

“Four months ago I was fighting a Chaos Cult on a world that looks very much like yours from space,” Constance said as she worked the pepper mill over her salad. “Have you ever had the misfortune to meet someone Chaos Possessed, your grace? They consume their victims from the inside out, knowing all of their memories and thoughts so that they can taunt and twist the knife to loved ones they murder and befoul. Wearing their loved ones' skin and face to torment them with the very love of their victim. They can only be killed with fire.”

The Duke's face paled a bit. “I...I had the fortune to give my two years of service in the Naval Forces.”

“Local?” Newberry asked. “Of course, lucky.”

Wren's chin rose a bit. “I did my duty and was ready to fight...”

Constance picked up a roll and began to butter it. “Have you ever seen what a bolter does to a man, your grace? We flame the possessed because the bolter will blow them into pieces, but the Demon that has possessed them can control every little piece of viscera. Little bloody bits of human, trying to force their way down your throat to choke you to death.”

The Duke kept his composure with remarkable aplomb. “I see I am in the presence of heroic veterans of our Emperor. I hope you will both forgive me the tragedy of my birth.”

Constance took pity on the Duke, laid her fork down and reached out to put her hand on his. “Your pardon, your grace, I hope you'll forgive an old pair of war horses a bit of hazing.”

He smiled and inclined his head. “The fault is mine, my lady. In my eagerness to endear myself to a pair of bonafide war heroes, I misspoke. No man can truly desire to see what you both have, but I hope you can admit that every man feels the zeal to do his duty.” He picked up his wine glass that the steward filled for him. “In fact, I raise my glass to the both of you and am thankful to have such paragons here to test me.”

The Captain's mustache twitched and humor and he hid it behind his napkin. “You may thank Palatine De La Concordia for her remarkable restraint.”

“Among many other virtues,” the Duke added as he raised his glass again.

“Your grace is completely without shame,” Constance scolded.

“Proudly!” 

* * *

One of the great luxuries of the _Mars-_ Class Cruiser, to which the _Vigilant_ belonged, was that they were general purpose vessels, meant to operate independently or in small task forces for long duration. As such, they had a bit of everything, fighter wings, assault craft, ship to ship weapons, ship to surface weapons and, interestingly enough, a library. The small collection of books were backed up electronic storage of just about the collected wisdom of mankind, but that there was actually a section of books was a fact the crew were quite proud of.

Having bid goodnight to her fellow diners, Constance had not felt particularly sleepy and, to keep her mind from other idles, she decided to go to this library and accomplish some research. Her palm print gave her access to the room, which was dark and seemed to be made of darkly stained wood book shelves. This was on the outer edge of the ship, and huge, peaked Gothic windows of transparent aluminum. Thuria was a magnificent view out that window as the ship had settled into a Geostationary orbit above New Atlanta. Night had just fallen and the city was lit up in the shadow of the Terminator.

Despite the windows, it was one of the most heavily armored areas of the  _Vigilant._

Constance walked over to the window, captivated, by the view until a deep, somewhat electronic sounding voice asked, “May I help you?” The voice had a clipped, precise accent and it's High Gothic was flawless. She turned from the window to behold a servitor, a Servo-Skull, floating on its anti-gravity field at conversational distance. It was a human skull with heavily modified cybernetics installed to it, with a single red electronic eye. From the bottom, where the jaw would have been hinged, a parchment roller had been installed and two small robotic arms clutched an ink well and a quill. Carved into the forehead of the skull was the  Aquila and 'Faithful Servant' in High Gothic.

“You are the librarian?” she asked the hybrid device.

The skull dipped slightly on its anti-gravity field, perhaps its version of a bow. “I am Baldermort, your humble scribe,” the voice replied from the little speaker in the nasal cavity of the skull. “How may I be of service, my lady?”

“I wish to know more about House Wren,” she told the mechanical slave. “Specifically, how long they have been in control of Thuria and the service record of His Grace Duke Cameron.”

“It was the painting on the wall,” the skull replied in it's melodic voice. “The painting of his ancestor, the Illustrious Agand Wren, who had inspired him, who had cast the long shadow the boy stood in. For in the Thirty Eighth Millennium of Man Agand had come to Thuria to claim a wilderness and build a home for his family. The boy had lived his entire life in the shadow of the Great Man who had conquered a world, heard stories and lessons of battles won and dangers braved two thousand years before his birth. Yet he was stymied, held back from anything more adventurous than attending to the call of nature by himself. He yearned to prove himself, to step out of the shadow of his great ancestor, only to be coddled and protected; safe and sound, far from harm. 'He was the heir,' he was told, time and again. 'He must not allow accidents to happen.'

“Of course, he grew restless, chaffing under so contrived and controlled an existence. He rebelled in the only manner and place left to him, the bedroom. He carved a swath through the ladies of noble birth and less than alike that was legendary. In the end, he earned a reputation of a philanderer, but this too was hushed up and winked at. Cuckolded husbands and enraged fathers who had to smile and bow to him. His 'service' to the Empire was a bit of theater for public consumption that even he recognized; still he did his duty with an exactness and diligence that was grudgingly congratulated. Then, his duty done on paper, if not in fact, he was released from service, he took up the reigns of power and perhaps finally, realized just how much truly rested on his shoulders.”

“Yet, under the brow of the man, the just and fair minded ruler that Duke Cameron has become, there was always the boy, who looked up at the painting and dreamed of being worthy of the very blood that flowed through his veins; worthy to be immortalized in his own painting for those, not yet gotten or born to look up to one day and admire. End quote.”

Constance felt her eyebrow ascend her forehead. “Are you always so theatrical, Baldermort?”

If possible, the electronic voice sounded just a touch smug. “In the pursuit of service to the Emperor's Faithful, no race is too tiring to run, my lady. The above quotation was from  _The House of Wren: The Official Record_ by the Adeptus Administratum. I would be honored to transfer a copy to your Data-Slate.”

“Please,” she ordered. “Now, I would like to see the Duke's service record.”

The holographic projector in the left eye lit up and displayed the file to float in ghostly green before her. “It is an exact, if short record, my lady,” the librarian replied. “His Grace served the required two years in the Imperial Military, attached to two vessels of the Thuria Sector Defense Fleet, the cruisers  _Atlanta_ and  _Dahlonega._ He requested transfer to any Imperial Fleet vessel and was denied six times, twice to be transferred to any infantry unit, both denied. He served as Weapons Officer on the  _Dahlonega_ and the Executive Officer of the  _Atlanta_ . Both commanders commended his work and his zeal to do his duty.”

“Is it just me, Baldermort, or does this record seem uncommonly short and sanitized?”

The skull was quiet for a moment. “I note it has  _exactly_ the correct number and length of documents for a military record.”

“Yes, but no attached letters from commanding officers, no notations to personnel, no attached reasons why the requested transfers to be denied.”

“I should think such reason to be rather obvious, considering.”

Constance rubbed her chin in thought. “Maybe. How long would it take you to interface with the Administratum and request a full copy to compare to the local?”

“I should have information for you by ships morning, my lady.”

“Thank you, Baldermort. I would also appreciate your discretion in this matter. Please come directly to my cabin with your results.”

The skull's blank face could not convey expression, but its tone of voice changed slightly to do so. “You distrust the ship's internal communications equipment, my lady?”

“I'm old fashioned,” she replied with a gesture at the ink well and quill in the grip of the Servo-Skull's arms. “Surely you can appreciate that?”

“Of course. How else may I be of service?”

“No, that's all for now. Thank you.”

The skull dipped on it's field again. “I have been Baldermort, your faithful scribe.”

* * *


	5. Homecoming

**Chapter Five**

**Home Coming**

The air of the arena was filled with shouts, screams and cat calls of the assembled war bands. The raucous cheers and vile leers were equally ignored by Shanaz as he doggedly blocked Grends blows, taking everything the big chief could fling at him. The make shift arena's air was thick with the stink of so many Orks, the smell of blood, viscera and urine as Shanaz continued to draw Chief Grends after him, throwing up a muscular arm to block the chief's blows and always smiling. Shanaz could see the chief's temper starting to rise as his blows were blocked, but his challenger refused to swing a blow of his own.

For his part, Shanaz was focused on the chief, ignoring everything else so that he could keep the big Ork from landing a solid blow; to continue to wear him down. The Gretchin and Snotlings were screaming, to say nothing of the Orks from both Grends war band and Shanaz's own, but Shanaz was a veteran of thousands of duels and he knew how to defeat an opponent bigger and stronger than he was. Not that Shanaz was small, by any stretch of the imagination. He was, in fact, as tall and nearly as wide as a Space Marine, between seven and eight feet tall, with hard, leathery green skin which was crisscrossed with scars, pockmarks and even a parasite or two. His massive physique was even more impressive for the hard, extremely muscular and solid frame. His arms are long and heavily thewed, knuckles almost scraping the floor as he lopes around, and his gnarled hands end in taloned fingers capable of tearing an enemy's throat out with ease.

First one, then a second of Grends blows missed and the war boss roared in frustration, but Shanaz could tell, it was time. Suddenly he lunged forward, easily side stepping Grends reflexive punch and sent his massive fist crashing into the War Chief's jaw. It broke with a thunderous _snap_ and sent teeth and broken tusks flying into the crowd who gleefully grabbed and clawed at them. The right was followed by a left that hit like a meteor on the other side, breaking the jaw again. Blood and spittle were flung and Grends destroyed jaw hung by the muscle and skin of his face like a gristly, gaping grin as he roared in pain and outrage.

“'ere we go! 'Ere we go! 'Ere we go!” Shanaz's followers began to shout as he stepped into his opponent's guard and began to punish ribs and soft tissue alike with his gnarled, calloused fists. Hearing these ribs snap and his follower's chants spurred Shanaz on as blow after blow rained down. Grends stumbled, his nose a hopeless ruin, one eye swelling shut and his jaw drooling blood and spittle as he fell back onto his ass, gazing up at his death.

Shanaz saw fear in Grends' one remaining eye as he reached down and picked up his victim by the throat. Holding him up high, Shanaz roared in triumph as his name was chanted by every Ork in the arena, then he held out his knee and brought Grends down onto it with all of his strength. The War Chief's spine snapped, echoing in the sudden silence and his last cry of pain came out a drowning gurgle as his lungs filled with blood. “I _am_ Chief!” Grends roared as he dumped the body of his foe into the dirt of the arena and beat his chest with his own fists.

“War boss Shanaz! War Boss Shanaz!' the Orks chanted as he reached down and ripped his dying foe's head from his body with his bare hands and held it aloft.

“Shanaz is War Boss!” he roared at the crowd. “And Shanaz says we go to fight!”

Swords, axes and bare fists beat on shields and armor as Shanaz reached into the corpse of Grends to soak his hands in his foe's blood and smeared it across his chest.

“Shanaz! Shanaz! Shanaz!” the Orks chanted working themselves into a frenzy for the coming battle.

It wasn't as easy as merely decapitating the former chief of Grends' war band, nor had Shanaz expected it to be. Grends' lieutenant hadn't bothered with a formal challenge, but had just launched himself at Shanaz. The new War Boss hadn't bothered with subtle for him, merely catching an arm as he fell and threw him to the ground. Then, held down with one of Grends' feet, he pulled his challengers arm off and beat him to death with it.

Two others started forward, but the band's collective consciousness had decided Shanaz had won. The two last hold outs of Grends were seized by the Orks around them and pulled apart. Shanaz thumped his chest a final time, then turned and shuffled out of the arena stretching his neck to loosen the muscles tense from the battle. He caught sight of the chief Gretchin of the now Late Grends and ambled over.

The Gretchin are smaller and less tough than their larger Ork brothers, with bald, bulbous heads and huge ears and noses and long, grasping fingers ready to steal anything not nailed down. This particular one had been Grends' favorite, and wore ridiculously ragged bits of a uniforms and braid ripped from fallen foes to show off his status. “Start the movers,” Shanaz ordered it. “We go to war.”

“'Er, 'ere we going, Boss?” it had the _temerity_ to ask.

Shanaz plucked a dagger from his belt and hurled it at the map of the local area of space, sinking into the moon of a human world he had long desired to ransack. “There,” he growled at the Gretchin. “Full speed!”

“Tally ho!” the Gretchin declared, scrambling to obey his new leader.

* * *

“This is _not_ what we were supposed to be doing!” Jonas Merle thundered, his face flush with anger and his gestures wide and sweeping. “ Cameron Wren is a _traitor!_ ” he shouted, bits of spittle arching from his lips and Constance was glad the desk in her quarters was between herself and the enraged Inquisitor.

“So you keep saying,” she replied evenly. “And yet I find no fault with His Grace, or his actions.”

Behind her, she felt Fiona cross her arms and frown. “The records prove the Duke sent in the pistol to the Imperial Armories, where it disappeared. How did _you_ get it?” Almost reflexively, Jonas reached for his Rosette to brandish his authority.

“Do not _dare_ to defy the Inquisition...!” he started, but, Constance merely reached down to the Rosarius around her waist and pulled up her own Inquisitorial Rosette.

In a deathly quiet voice, she said, “You forget, Inquisitor, I am also a member of the Adeptus Ministorum, Ordo Militant and commissioned within the Ordo Hereticus. So put your Rosette back on your chest, lower your voice and address me as at _least_ your equal, if not your better, or by the Golden Throne you will discover what a bolter does to a man first hand. I have spent thirty _years_ battling the Emperor's enemies, how many battlefields have _you_ walked?”

The red drained out of the man's face and swallowed carefully. “We...we all serve the Emperor, in many ways, in many duties...”

Fiona rolled her eyes and snorted, “Coward,” under her breath, but loud enough that her Palatine heard it and chose to over look it.

“Now,” De La Concordia declared evenly. “With that settled, let us move on to the Emperor's business. You charged our order to root out Heresy in House Wren, and thus far, I can only report there is none in evidence. In point of fact, I find House Wren has been steadfastly loyal for more than two millennia! I have found a world _studious_ in it's commitments to the Empire of Mankind and actively attempting to do more with efforts and collaborations with other loyal organizations to improve our war material against our enemies. If you have evidence of treason and heresy, bring it forth and let us see it!”

“I cannot...” he started and this time Constance rolled her eyes.

“So you have none!”

Jonas became more firm. “No, I am oath bound! I _cannot_ speak of what I have learned!”

Constance drummed her fingers on the desk. “And I am not willing to execute what appears to be a model subject on your say so! Stalemate.” She sighed and turned over her shoulder. “Sister Vander, kindly inform the convent to prepare to disembark the _Vigilant_ . We have tied her up for too long as it is.”

“Palatine,” she replied as she made her way out.

“You're giving up?” Jonas demanded.

Constance sniffed and stood from the chair. “No, I am carrying out my mandate to found a convent Famula. Searching for corruption and guiding House Wren is a part of that mandate. Unless you can give me proof, my hands are tied.”

“What can I do to convince you?” he asked after a long moment of thought. “That does not violate my oath?”

She resisted her impulse to be flippant, and actually considered for a long moment, finally coming to the conclusion that her original response was actually accurate. “Nothing,” she declared firmly. “I see nothing to validate your accusation and I am unmoved by claims of confidential evidence I must give weight to sight unseen.”

“Then I must go with you,” he declared.

“You take your life in your own hands, then,” she told him. “I can conceal your identity here on the _Vigilant_ , but only a fool would not be able to see who had slandered him with you accompanying us. What's more, the Duke has a right to seek redress against you. I won't shield you from the consequences of your actions.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What if...what if he wasn't able to see me?”

The Palatine frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What if he couldn't see the Inquisitor standing out in a group of Sisters Sororitas?”

Constance crossed her arms in annoyance. “The Duke is no fool, Jonas.”

The Inquisitor's face went cagey. “Of course, of course, but is he so vigilant that he can pick out one sister among many?” Seeing the confusion on her face, he pressed on. “I could hide in plain sight, as just another sister of your convent. There's enough medical technology on board to...”

Constance's hand whipped out with the speed of years of training, giving him no time to react. Her attack was instinctual, however, merely an open handed slap instead of a closed fist, which saved his life. As it was, the slap left a mark on his face and landed with sufficient force that he stumbled and fell to the deck. Towering over him, her face was flush with suppressed rage and now her fists were clinched. “Do not _dare_ to give voice to the blasphemy you indulge in that foul mind of yours!” she hissed. “Allow you to disgrace a habit, to dishonor my convent with your mockery of our vows and traditions all so you can continue to slander a man I suspect more and more is entirely innocent? I will kill you with my bare hands first!”

“I am within my rights and the powers of the Inquisition!” he pleaded. “I am allowed to don _any_ uniform of any organization to root out the Emperor's Enemies!”

“The Mandate of the Adepta Sororitas is bound by the Order Passive!” Constance snarled. “The Ecclesiarchy is _forbidden_ to have men under arms! I will not allow you to disgrace us in some kind of vulgar...charade!”

The Inquisitor scrambled to his feet. “I am bound by my oath! I have the right and power to don any uniform, to purport myself as a member of _any_ organization to fulfill my mandate! You may not deny me under the law!”

Constance clinched and unclenched her fists for a long moment, then with a voice tense and taunt with the effort of restraining herself, she pointed a finger like a bayonet and commanded, “Do not _move_ , from that spot until I return.”

That dealt with, she whirled out of her quarters with all the fury of a hurricane. As she made her way through the ship, crewmen scrambled to get out of her way until she arrived at the ship's communication center and pointed at the senior tech. “You! Stay where you are! The rest of you, clear this compartment!”

“Aye, aye!” the crew acquiesced, scrambling over each other to obey.

Alone with the now very nervous Petty Officer, Constance dogged the hatch shut and secure before she ordered, “I want a secure link to the Order of the Healing Heart, and I want it without any record or transcript. My authorization code is...”

The young woman nodded eagerly. “I understand, Palatine. One moment.”

With an effort, Constance reigned in her temper and laid a consoling hand on the tech as she worked. “Forgive me for my fit of temper, Petty Officer. My ire is not with you.”

“Thank you, Palatine.” She looked up, after checking in her instruments, her face a bit worried. “We're too far for real time communication, I'm afraid. If you'd like to record your message, I'll send it. And I'll see to it the reply isn't screened or recorded when I bring it to you.”

Constance smiled at the younger woman. “Your diligence honors me. Proceed.”

She took a pair of ear plugs from the carrier on her uniform and put them in. “I won't be able to hear you, so just touch my shoulder when you're done, Palatine. The camera is right there. Recording... _now_ .”

De La Concordia sighed to order her thoughts and then looked directly into the indicated lens of the camera. “Reverend Mother, Greeting. This message should be encoded Security Able Seven, I repeat Able Seven. I send you this in request for guidance to resolve conflicting directives. The Inquisitor whom you assigned me to assist now seeks to don the habit of a Sister and pass himself off as one of us to hide while he seeks proof of Duke Cameron's treason. I must inform you, my own investigations exonerate the Duke and House Wren. I have found nothing but exemplary service and loyalty. The Ordo Hereticus does give him the right to purport himself as a member of any organization, but by pretending to be a Sister, he violates the Order Passive. I do not, myself, have the authority to deny him, but I cannot risk a crime that may dishonor our entire order either. My instinctive reaction is to kill him, but I will take no action without your direction. I remain, your obedient servant, Constance De La Concordia, Palatine, Adepta Sororitas.”

She touched the Petty Officer on the shoulder and the tech worked her console. “I'll have your answer as soon as it comes in, Palatine.”

* * *

Ruth sat at the table and stared at the collection of parts on the top of it. She had them all laid out, just like the diagram she had been taught how to field strip and clean the bolter so long ago. She picked up each piece, gently wiping away what now was only imaginary grime as she tried to come to grips with her reaction to the extraction of Duke Wren. It bothered her how...tense...she allowed herself to use the word to describe how she had felt in the hallway. She put the bolt carrier on the table and contemplated her dark brown fingers next to the shiny metal.

She sighed and frowned, her thoughts deep inward. It bothered her how tense being in that beautiful hallway in her armor had made her. She hadn't been so wound up charging that tank the heretics had gotten a hold of. It was remarkably straight forward; weapons free shoot at them, they're shooting at you. Everything that wasn't a Sister or one of the Guardsmen with you was a target.

It was simple.

It was everything that extracting the Duke had not been. Hold your fire, defend yourself, but don't start it, the civilians were to be protected, until they weren't. Till they tried to kill you. You didn't know who was who or what was what until you were already taking fire. And Mary had been right, they were giving them time to go and _get_ the toys that could cut through their armor.

Minute after minute after minute until someone could pop around a corner with a heavy bolter or a recoil-less rifle or something worse that if it couldn't defeat the armor might still kill her just from the transference of force. “Fuck this shit,” she muttered, picking up the bolt carrier again and making sure the firing pin was springing properly before mating it up with the bolt and stuffing them back into the receiver. With sharp, practiced moves she had the bolter reassembled and checked that the hold open was working on an empty magazine.

Straight forward soldiering was easy. Here's the target, guns free, go and accomplish it. Ruth worried she wasn't up to this kind of might be/might not be kind of war.

“Attention on deck,” someone ordered from behind her. Ruth returned the weapon to the table as she stood and turned to find Sister Vander in the hatchway. She pulled the hatch shut and came into the day room more fully. Ruth fought to keep the frown off her face, as here was yet another example of what weirdness this assignment was about. As an Elohiem Advance, she should outrank Sister Vander, but she didn't doubt for a moment that was nothing like the reality of things. Sister Vander was Palatine De La Concordia's second in command in all but technicality.

It wasn't that Ruth didn't _like_ Sister Vander, it was obvious she was Ruth's kind of Sister. Go out, purge the heretics and be done with it, that was the kind of service Ruth expected. She wasn't able to give it further consideration as Sister Vander was speaking. “Sisters, Palatine De La Concordia has ordered me to instruct you all to pack your gear and prepare to disembark. Our mission is starting now.”

“When are we leaving, Sister?” Mary asked her.

Fiona shook her head. “Unknown. Probably tomorrow after breakfast as it's after dark local on the planet. Get your gear prepped and stand by for further orders.”

Finally, Ruth made a decision and stepped forward. “Sister Vander?”

“Yes, um, Ruth, wasn't it?”

“Yes...ma'am,” Ruth replied. “I was wondering, is our entire tour going to be wondering when the population is going to start shooting at us? Are we going to be walking around with targets on our backs, or do we get to be proactive at all?”

Vander smirked. “You looking to get into combat, Ruth?”

Ruth shrugged. “Combat is simple. The enemy is in front of you, your sisters are next to you, do the job, take the objection, move on.”

Fiona walked over to conversational distance. “I understand your situation. Unfortunately, things aren't always cut and dry. As the servants of the Emperor, sometimes we get handed hard missions, with objects that aren't as simple as take the objective. Palatine De La Concordia is never the less confident in all of you to do your duty.”

Ruth forced a smile. “Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am.”

“Good girl.”

* * *

In his quarters, Cameron Wren stared at the hologram of Constance De La Concordia. It was her official photograph, wearing the same habit she had worn to dinner the night previous, her hair about her face, a face set in what most soldiers in official photographs called their 'war face.' It was a blank, unemotive expression, unsmiling, looking directly out at the viewer, meant to convey a sense of seriousness and resolution. Even in so official a document, in so staged an expression, it could not hide the fact that she was a very beautiful woman, but that was only the superficial level of his attraction.

Cameron Wren had known many beautiful women.

The record was remarkable as he read it, as it was good to have friends in strategic places. A friend in the records division had acquired this particular record and his major domo had smuggled it up with his clothing on a data-slate of 'important documents' that required the Duke's attention. Now his impressions from dinner were firmly re-enforced. Constance De La Concordia really _was_ a heroine of the Empire. She had fought for thirty years on planets across the galaxy.

Not just in simple terms of combat, either.

Twice she had been reprimanded for 'excessive concern' of local inhabitants on world's she had fought on. Constance was something of prodigy, a tactical genius who had a reputation for taking difficult assignments and accomplishing them in unconventional ways. She was neither a martinet, nor bleeding heart, but a woman of conviction who understood who she was fighting _for_ .

Cameron smiled, she was, in many ways, ideal.

He reached over to the communications panel his quarters had and in a few minutes was speaking with his Major Domo. “Henry, yes, everything's going well. I expect to be home tomorrow, probably around lunch time. Have your people found a suitable place for the convent? Excellent! I want you to arrange a formal ball. A sort of homecoming ball. Yes, I'll leave that to you. And spare no expense, Henry, I want to make a very favorable impression.”

* * *


	6. Chapter Six: Plans Within Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverend Mother Winters embarks on a desperate plan to maintain the Empire of Mankind.

**Chapter Six**

**Plans Within Plans**

“I remain, your obedient servant, Constance De La Concordia, Palatine, Adepta Sororitas.”

Abigail Winters sat at her desk and contemplated the frozen image of the Palatine she had dispatched against her better judgment, standing ghostly, and transparent in holographic pause before her desk. There had been many fears to cloud her mind that she had ignored in an effort to save the careers of two sisters she felt had been dealt unjust hands at the game of life. She had hoped that assigning Constance's now redeemed mentor to her mission would perhaps head off some of her misgivings.

But never, in her wildest dreams, would she have thought that the Inquisitor would demand something like this.

Yes, it was within his authority, but it had never been considered before. The handful of times the Inquisition had hidden within the Adepta Sororitas they had all already been women. Of course, it went almost without saying most of those exceptions had ended badly for the impostor sisters. Abigail had no doubt whatsoever that Jonas was serious; Constance would never had bothered her if he was even remotely insincere in his demands.

Her heart heavy, she stood from her desk and soft gesture dismissed the hologram of Palatine Constance. She walked around her desk and out of her office, her thoughts in complete disarray. There were so many contradictions to consider. If she gave Constance approval to kill Jonas, the Inquisition would be incensed. War between the two major divisions of the Ecclesiarchy would be disastrous for the Empire of Man. It could even possibly bring about another dark age, but if she allowed him to violate the Order Passive, to allow a man to bear arms in an Ordo Militant, would violate a truce that had headed off the _last_ threat to human civilization.

For a time, she considered ordering Constance coyly to do away with the bothersome Inquisitor. Accidents happened in combat zones all the time, but all of the indications from the operation on Thuria related that combat was unlikely. A death as questionable as Jonas's would be, regardless of Constance's skill in arranging the dead to appear to be victims of their own misfortune would be heavily investigated. No coy work from Constance would stand to such scrutiny.

Outside, under the warm spring air, Abigail walked and considered punting the problem upstairs. She could invoke Prioress Helena the Virtuous, head of the Convent Sanctorum, but Abigail had lived long enough to know that if this blew up, there needed to be a certain distance, a certain plausible deniability from the head of their convent if there was any chance of avoiding an Ecclesiarchy Civil War. If Helena knew, then perhaps the last hope of civilization itself might be gone.

Humanity needed someone to fall on their sword.

Abigail sighed and smiled to herself. She had lived a long life, done remarkable things and saved lives beyond count. If this last service was needed by the Emperor, then she would oblige him. Her decision made, she turned her feet from the garden and into the long care ward. After several minutes, she came to the ICU and looked at her haggard reflection in the glass through which she regarded her victim. “Forgive me, child,” she whispered. “The Emperor has one final need of you.”

“Reverend mother?”

The voice of the ward nurse brought her from the contemplation. She turned and took in the young girls face and smiled warmly. When did her nurses become so young? “Good evening, June, isn't it?”

She blushed at being recognized. “How may I help you, Reverend Mother?”

Abigail made a gesture at the window she stood beside. “What is the status of Sister Rachael's condition?”

The young nurse stood from her desk and came over. “There's no change, Reverend Mother,” she said sadly. “The wound is healed, but the brain damage is too great. We had a Psyker check, just on the off chance, but she was pronounced brain dead. I sent the paperwork for her organs to be harvested and her remains laid to rest to your office this morning.”

“I recall,” Winters replied sadly. “The unit is keeping her body otherwise alive?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother. We can begin harvesting tomorrow...”

“That is countermanded,” she ordered softly. “June, I am swearing you to secrecy for a service to the Emperor that may cost you your life. How say you?”

“I am at the Emperor's service,” she declared reverently. “Whatever he needs of me, I will do.”

Winters nodded and laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Pack your things quietly, then collect Rachael's things from storage. Once done, you will return here and prepare her body for transport.”

“Transport where, Reverend Mother?”

“Warp travel,” the Reverend Mother declared. “Where you need not know, so you cannot testify to it later.”

The young face paled. “Reverend Mother, taking a body into the Warp risks possession...”

“Before we depart you will remove Sister Rachael's brain and reverently lay it to rest in the Garden of Fallen Heroines. Without that direct connection, we should not have anything to worry about. Still, to be safe, on board, you and I will both stand watch,” Abigail assured her. “Will you still pledge yourself?”

“I hear and obey the will of the Emperor.”

Abigail leaned down and kissed the girl on the forehead. “Bless you, child. On your way, and not a word to anyone.”

*** * ***

“You wanted to see me, Connie?”

Constance looked up from her data-slate tiredly, but forced a smile to her mentor and invited her into the small cabin. Fiona was dressed casually in her Day Service Habit, a simple gown that fell to her ankles in black with the three quarter bell sleeves, similar to the Battle Habit with her Rosarius in red beads as a belt. Already, there was a fuzz of gray hair about her scalp, mixed with the honey blonde that been her natural color. “Come in, Fiona,” she invited, waving her at a chair. “I want you to hear this.”

The older Sister noted the Servo-Skull that was hovering on its anti-gravity field, awaiting her command. She dogged the hatch shut and tripped the security field to Classified. It wasn't uncommon for secrets to need to be discussed without fear of a flight recorder logging them, and the ship had been constructed with that in mind, for those of the appropriate station. As Fiona slid into the seat, Constance made a gesture of introduction to the skull. “This is Baldermort, the former librarian of the ship. Baldermort, this is Sister Fiona Vander, my good right hand.”

The skull dipped in the air. “I am deeply honored, Sister.”

Vander cocked her head to one side. “Are you an A.I. Baldermort?”

“I have only the vaguest memories of it now, my lady, but once, long ago, my skull was covered in skin and I possessed a body, rather than these crude cybernetic appendages and I walked in the sunlight in the service of our emperor,” the skull replied. “That my service was so exemplary to justify my current station is the crown of any servant who has done his duty.”

“An actual conscious Servo-Skull on a war ship?” Vander asked her protege in amazement.

Constance smirked. “No longer, I've informed Captain Newberry I am invoking my privilege to transfer Baldermort to our Mission. I've found his help invaluable.”

“I'm certain that did nothing for your stock in the Captain's eyes.”

“Oh, he stooped to crass bribery, but I was firm. Baldermort serves us, now.” Turning to the skull, she commanded, “Show Lady Vander what you showed me.”

The holographic projector built into the skull's left eye lit up and soon a pair of service records were floating beside each other in front of Fiona. “The document on your left is the local copy of the service record of His Grace Cameron Wren, retrieved by automated poll yesterday at Palatine De La Concordia's request. On your right is the Master Record, sent via secure transmission at my request for the Palatine yesterday from the central archives of the Adeptus Administratum on Holy Terra. Comparing the documents finds twenty discrepancies, predominately, the omission of attached letters to the file. However, most troubling is an After Action report of a boarding party, initiated by HMAV _Atlanta_ and led by it's Executive Officer, Lord Lieutenant Cameron Wren is completely missing from the local copy.”

Fiona quickly scanned the report, an eyebrow raised as she turned to Constance. “By this, it would appear his Grace deserves the Medallion Crimson at the very least.”

“Oh, it's much deeper than that,” Constance replied. “I had Baldermort check the medical reports of the _Atlanta_ and I found that the surgeon reported that His Grace's heart stopped for a full minute while being operated on for his injuries in the action. A fact his official record expunges.”

“There's a chance he could be tainted!” Vander protested. “He should have been watched for signs of possession...!”

“And yet he wasn't,” Constance replied. “He kissed the sigil of the Emperor, which no Chaos Tainted has ever been able to do, but...”

“We have to test him,” Fiona persisted. “At once!”

Softly, Constance asked her mentor, “Doesn't that tip our hand, Mother?” Worry of one kind was replaced on her face with another, more sinister version.

Rubbing her chin, Fiona nodded finally. “You make a good point.” After a moment of thoughts, she asked, “What if we...” Fiona couldn't continue as she was interrupted by a knock at the door. Frowning, she rose and undogged the hatch to tower over a young petty officer. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, sister,” the young officer replied, then looked beyond her into the cabin. “Palatine, I have your response.”

“Oh, excellent, thank you,” Constance replied, coming to the hatch as she did so. The Petty Officer handed her a slip of paper.

“It was transmitted in the clear, ma'am, or I would never...”

“Thank you, Petty Officer,” Constance interrupted her, though laying a consoling hand on her arm as she did so. Constance could not be as polite as she might like because of the puzzling slip in her hands and it's terse message. She walked back to her desk as Fiona re-secured the hatch and followed her.

“What's this about?” she asked.

“There is another consideration,” the Palatine told her. “Our Inquisitor has invoked his right to masquerade as a member of any organization to further keep an eye on the Duke.”

“Who does he intend to pretend to...wait, you don't mean...?”

“I do,” Connie assured her. “The little miscreant had the stones to suggest it to my face. I wish now I'd killed him by reflex, but I only slapped him. I had a communique in to Revered Mother Winters for guidance and I was awaiting word back.” She raised her hand. “Here it is.”

“Well, what does it say?”

“On my way, take no action until I arrive,” Constance read. The older woman frowned rubbed her chin. “Surely Reverend Mother Winters can't intend to allow...?”

Fiona shrugged. “I've known Abby for a long time. I make a point of never trying to second guess her. She thinks downright sideways some times. So, I suppose we should inform Captain Newberry we won't be leaving as quickly as we thought?”

“Well, she did say _no action_.”

“I'll tell him,” Vander replied. “Meanwhile, you and I need to put our heads together and make _certain_ there is no chaos taint in our handsome Duke.”

“We're a new Mission,” Constance mulled softly. “And a new Minor Order. I could request a reliquary...”

Vander's smile and wink was all the confirmation Constance needed.

* * *

Gretchen lay in her bunk and stared up at the ceiling as her mind ran in panicked circles. Having a cabin to herself as a lowly squad leader was a luxury on a ship of the line, even one as large as the _Vigilant._ The 'cabin' wasn't much, a glorified closet, really, with a bed that folded out from a sofa in a room just long and wide enough for it, then another meter of space that was crammed with lockers for her things, a desktop that folded out of the wall, a screen on an armature and a little sliver of open deck between them. The entire room stripped to the walls would likely be only two meters by three.

While it was all hers and she didn't have to share it, Gretchen found it ironic that she chose to.

Next to her, in the hard little futon passing itself off as a bunk, Jennifer stirred in her sleep. Despite her own preferences, Sister Superior Gretchen Wycroff had _not_ intended to seduce Jennifer. Sure, Jennifer just happened to fit the mold that Gretchen liked her women, but the day previous, she had only intended to comfort a fellow Sister in dealing with the harsh reality of combat in service to the Emperor of Mankind. Holding her crying sister, comforting a member of _her squad_ , a life she was responsible for, Gretchen had been fixed on doing her duty, both as a soldier and as a human being. However, Jennifer had done the last things she'd expected.

Jennifer had kissed her.

Some part of Jennifer, having faced the horrors of Chaos Taint, needed to feel the deep connection with another human being. It was a natural reaction to traumatic stress, the need to feel alive, it just happened that she'd picked the person who should not be having this kind of relationship with her trooper. Gretchen sighed, the previous twenty four hours had been _amazing_. This was clearly not Jennifer's first dance with another girl. There was no shy hesitation, no holding back at all to be honest. Of course, Jennifer had not been Gretchen's first dance partner either. Their lovemaking had been intense, almost feverish and now, spent Gretchen was more relaxed than if she'd had a week off on R&R.

The problem was, she now had to hurt this woman who, otherwise would be an ideal partner.

She had to find some way of telling Jennifer this was their first and last hours stolen from the night. “You're thinking too loud,” Jennifer mumbled into her shoulder.

“Am I?” Gretchen asked with a chuckle and kissed the top of Jennifer's head.

Her face shifted as she got a bit more comfortable. “Yes. You're probably all bent out of shape thinking about how you just banged one of your troopers and how will _that_ look on your next performance evaluation?” A hand found Gretchen's intimate center, causing her to gasp and mew. “I think you'll like _my_ performance evaluation better...”

With a Herculean effort of will, Gretchen reached down and gently, but firmly, removed Jennifer's hand from the inside of her panties. “I'm not doing this because I want to,” she told the younger girl fervently, and she meant it. “I...I can't get involved with someone who reports to me. It's not _right_ .” The expression on Jennifer's face, a mix of sadness and hope ate at Gretchen's resolve. “If you were in another Mission, yes, _so much yes_ , Jen, but there's only twenty five of us! I...I can't...!”

“Nobody has to know...” Jennifer started, but trailed off immediately seeing the look on her lover's face.

“You're better than that, Jen,” Gretchen gently scolded her.

The blonde sighed and rolled over in prelude to sitting up. “I guess I should go, then,” she declared, looking about to figure out which clothes on the floor were hers. Gretchen sat up and gathered the other girl into her arms. Their skin felt so wonderful against each other that it made it hard to think.

“Please, baby, don't take it like that...”

Jennifer turned, her face millimeters from Gretchen's. “How should I take it, Gretch? I'm sorry, are we on duty, Sister Superior? Because if we're not on duty enough to ignore discipline for me to call you 'Gretch' then why the fuck can't we be together off duty?”

Wycroff opened and closed her mouth, not sure what she was trying to say. Truth be told, there wasn't any mention in the regulations about relationships between sisters. There were regulations concerning relationships with civilians; about how the needs of the Order came before any other. The forbidding of being seen patronizing a brothel or negotiating with gigolos, in or out of uniform, and needing approval from one's Canoness Commander to become pregnant. There was no rule about fraternization, but for some reason, it seemed wrong to Gretchen. Still after a long moment, she looked Jennifer in the eye and asked, “Are you willing to go with me to Palatine De La Concordia and ask her permission?”

Jennifer took Gretchen's face in her hands. “Yes,” she answered firmly. “Right now.”

“Breakfast first?”

The blond pushed her back down on the bunk. “No,” she declared. “Breakfast _second._ ”

* * *

Duke Cameron took a moment as he got out of the hover car to take in the flurry of activity around his estate appreciating the ordered chaos carefully being orchestrated by his Major Domo. There were florists and handymen being led about with ladders, all changing the somewhat staid exterior of the Ducal Estate into something out of a fairy tale.

The fortified manor house was readily lent to such comparisons thanks to the Gothic and Neo Baroque style it was built in, white plaster and marble gleaming in the mid morning sun looking down over gardens that were kept with the precision of a military parade ground. He could see electricians stringing ropes of LED lights in the vines and flowered garlands that, after dark, would likely make the house glow with magic. The water from the fountain and basin the main rotunda of the drive looped around would be made to run in a rainbow of colors that glowed and faded artistically.

A grin settled on his face from ear to ear with the vindication of knowing if you took care of your staff, your staff would always take care of you. He was uncharacteristically enthusiastic as he took the arm of Henry Eddington, the expert manager of his household, and pumped it vigorously. “Henry, you've outdone yourself!” he congratulated as he looked about, everywhere his gaze fell he found people working, stringing banners and garlands with abandon.

“Modesty forbids, sir,” Eddington replied in his cultured, slightly accented baritone. “I daresay the lads have come through in fine fashion, however.”

“Outstanding,” Cameron declared, practically giddy with seeing movement on his plans. “And how goes the search for the convent?”

From behind his back, the Major Domo produced a data-slate that he offered to the Duke as he fell in at his side, walking up the wide, shallow steps to the house proper. “I've taken the liberty of reducing the selection to three on your behalf, sir, keeping in mind your requirements was not an easy task, but I think you'll be pleased.”

He took the slate and quickly glanced through the entries as they swept through the foyer into the grand hall. “Oh, yes, the old Montrose Estate, that's...”

“Just up the road,” Henry finished with a smile. “I rather thought you'd prefer that site.”

Wren paused and took in the long face of his chief of staff. “What kind of condition is it in?”

“The facilities are all functional, power, water and the like,” Henry replied. “I'd imagine the entire estate could use a good cleaning and attention from a Gardner, but there is plenty of space for a cadre of such combative minded women as Sisters of Battle. Likely enough improvements to be made that they shan't worry about being maneuvered into this particular site.”

Wren beamed. “What would I do without you, Henry?”

“I'm sure I don't know, sir.”

“Invitations?”

“All out this morning, by courier, sir. Already I have confirmation from both the supplemental caterer to assist Chef and his staff, as well as the musicians. They should be arriving after lunch.”

“Carry on, Henry, I see you have everything well in hand.”

“Thank you, sir. Have you broken your fast as yet? I can have Chef...”

Cameron waved him off over his shoulder as he headed for the grand staircase and his private apartments. “No, no, I'm fine. Have to try and catch up on things before this evening.”

“Very good, sir.”

* * *


	7. Chapter Seven: Garters and Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Palatine Constance begins to entertain her blossoming relationship with Duke Wren, Canoness Winter arrives, with a disturbing plan...

**Chapter Seven**

** Garters and Daggers **

Ruth threw her kit bag on the bunk she had vacated just an hour or two ago and growled with repressed anger. “Pack to leave, unpack we're staying, make up your Emperor Damned minds!” she muttered, unfortunately right as Sister Vander was walking by. The older woman paused and laid a hand on Ruth's shoulder.

“At ease, Sister, I'm sure Palatine De La Concordia has every reason to delay our departure.”

Ruth's temper got a hold of her tongue before her mind could. “You'd  _ know _ , wouldn't you, Sister?” she demanded angrily, snatching her shoulder out of the other woman's grasp. “What is it between you and the Palatine, anyway?”

Fiona's expression changed from concern to disapproval. “What confidences I have, are just that,” she declared softly. “You all volunteered, you knew...”

“No,” Ruth corrected her vehemently, her finger coming up in accusation. “I didn't volunteer. My Squad Leader volunteered the entire squad!” Her arm swept the other members of the squad who now were watching the little drama unfold, much to Fiona's deterioration of mood. “Right in the middle of convalescent leave, in strolls Sister Superior Wycroff who informs us we just got dumped out of the Order we picked, the MOS we trained for and suddenly we're all bound for the hind end of the Empire! And for what? To baby sit some uptight idiot with a silver spoon up his ass?”

Vander's disapproval pulled into a more menacing expression of dislike. “And you could have sought transfer before we deployed.”

“Leave my squad?” Ruth demanded, her anger now in full command of her mouth. “Leave the Sisters I trained with? When we all _know_ what each other are doing without saying a word? Get lumped in with ten strangers and start over? Fat chance!” There were murmurs of agreement just at the edge of Fiona's hearing and she realized this had to be snuffed out and quickly before it festered into something worse.

“Then you _did_ volunteer,” Vander told her tightly, raising her voice to address the entire squad. “So every one of you screw that into your heads. You all volunteered, now put a lid on your belly aching and get your minds in the game. This isn't a simple assignment, and everyone of us needs each other sharp and paying attention!” Turning back to the dark faced source of this little drama, Vander tapped her on the shoulder, right on her rank epaulet. “You want to be in charge, Elohiem Advance? Act like it! Lead your sisters, and get your head out of your ass; shut up and soldier!”

“You want me to soldier, _sister?_ ” Ruth snarled. “Let's! For starters, you're right! I am _Elohiem_ _Advance_ Ruth Whitworth and you will address me as such!”

“You really do not want to go down this road, Eloheim,” Vander replied.

“Yes, yes I do,” Ruth replied as she stormed over to the communications panel by the hatch. “I want this sorted right rutting now!” She slapped the panel on and after a moment it was picked up. “Palatine De La Concordia, Elohiem Advance Whitworth. Sorry to trouble you, ma'am, but I wonder if you could sort out an issue on our TOA for us regarding Sister Vander.”

There was a burst of static, and suddenly a hologram of the Palatine appeared by the hatch. “Attention on deck,” she ordered, her face stern. The sisters all braced into attention and the hologram turned to face her mentor. “Sister Vander, front and center.”

“Ma'am,” the Sister replied as she marched to stand beside the hologram, facing the combined sisters of the mission. The girls looked nervously at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

“Ladies, allow me to introduce former Canoness Preceptor Fiona Vander. Canoness Vander has fought in every major campaign of the Convent Sanctorum for the last hundred years. That means multiple combat drops into Espandor, Parmenio, and Lax. She also took part in the boarding action of the Star Fort Galatan! She has fought every Zenos threat and Chaos demon known to Man as well as corruption in our own order as displayed by her success in the Rite of Repentance. I am appointing her as the acting Legatine of our Mission; she answers to me, and to me alone. Is this clear?”

“Yes, Palatine!” the room echoed, both subdued and a bit awed at the revelation.

The hologram turned to Ruth. “Does this settle the TOA to your satisfaction, Elohiem Advance?”

Ruth stood stiffer at attention. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Carry on,” the hologram replied, before it faded away.

Fiona glared at the room for a moment, then shook her head. “Anyone asking me for a war story will be cleaning latrines for a month!” she declared, then satisfied they were cowed, turned back to Ruth. The young woman stood at perfect attention in the way most young Non-Commissioned Officers did when they had fucked up in sight of the brass. Ruth had fucked up in spectacular fashion, but had the sense to realize it and that was plain on her face. Fiona decided to try diplomacy so she walked over to the young sister and in a tone of voice only she could hear, commanded, “Now that we're settled, Elohiem Advance, I want your head out of your ass. So go do whatever you do to relax and get your mind back in the game. Go to the small arms center and put rounds down range, sleep, go get laid, build a ship in an Emperor Damned bottle, whatever it is, you obviously need it. Go do it. That's an order.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Out of my sight,” Fiona declared and Ruth scampered through the hatch as quick as she could. Fiona sighed and turned to face the crowd of women, most still at attention and all staring at her. “As you were,” she ordered and headed back to the somewhat isolated bunk at the back of the compartment that she'd claimed from before.

* * *

Constance sighed as she clicked off the hologram camera and shook her head. “I'm getting old,” she scolded herself.  _ I should have promoted Fiona before we left the Convent of the Healing Heart. _ She winced as she realized the amount of paperwork she had just assigned herself, and likely an official inquiry of bias in command judgment assuming she survived long enough for the Mission to be established in the first place. 

Perhaps sooner, since Canoness Winter was coming.

De La Concordia frowned as she remembered the cryptic message she had received and wondered again why the Canoness would be coming in person, rather than sending a sealed order packet or even a bio-metric locked survo skull. Her thoughts were disturbed by the door tone and she quickly pulled herself together before answering, “Come.”

The hatch opened, revealing Sister Superior Wycroff and another sister who's name escaped Constance.  _ Just what I need, _ she thought to herself.  _ More personnel problems.  _ Out loud, she asked, “Yes?”

The two sisters came to attention and Gretchen spoke. “Palatine, Sister Hamilton and I were hoping...that is, we'd like your permission...”

The stuttering at least took the edge off this being a  _ serious _ personnel issue. “If you're bucking for a transfer, Sister Superior, you're out of luck. I'm short handed as it is.”

“Oh, no ma'am,” Gretchen replied, her cheeks blushing. “You see, the regulations are silent on this particular topic and, well, it's _personal_ , and...” Jennifer sighed noisily and rolled her eyes.

“Begging your pardon, ma'am,” she declared forcefully, “the Sister Superior and I would like your permission to have a sexual relationship.”

Connie leaned back in her chair, somewhat taken aback. “I...see...” she drawled. “And you need my permission because...?”

“I am a member of the Sister Superior's squad, and thus I report to her,” Hamilton replied evenly. “Gretchen is concerned that would make our off time 'recreation' an asterisk beside her reviews of my conduct.”

“The Sister Superior has a point,” Connie declared. “Our small size means we depend more than most on being ready for action, being able to depend on each other. Splitting loyalties, or the appearance of favoritism undermines the chain of command.”

“We understand that, ma'am,” Gretchen managed, getting back into the conversation. “I just wanted to be above board and since there was no regulation against it, we thought your permission would be the best course.”

Connie drummed her fingers on her desk for a moment, giving each woman a measuring stare. Finally, she made a decision and made sure her command face was set. “We are a small Mission, ladies and I expect we'll be operating on somewhat detached status for some time. Normally, I would agree with Sister Superior Wycroff and err on the side of caution, but because I need my troopers in top shape, I'm inclined to be somewhat flexible due to our isolated nature. Let me be clear, the first time it comes to my attention what the two of you engage in on your off hours is affecting your performance, that will be the end of this lenience. Understood?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the lovers declared in chorus.

“Wycroff, have Sister Superior Marks double check any paperwork you have to generate concerning Sister Hamilton.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'll depend on your discretion, ladies, otherwise, what you do in your off hours isn't my concern. Permission granted. Anything else?”

“No, ma'am.”

Jennifer grinned. “Thank you, ma'am.”

“Don't make me regret this,” De La Concordia cautioned them. “Dismissed.” 

* * *

The Ward Room of the  _ Vigilant  _ was becoming something of a second home to Constance as she poured herself a glass of tea from the beverage mess in preparation for taking her lunch. She had long ago learned to ignore the surreptitious glances of the junior officers her Order sometimes had to interact with on their way to and from engagements. At her age, it was a bit flattering if she was honest with herself, thankful for the martial lifestyle and modern medicine that let her turn heads at fifty.

Even if her body did not look thirty yet.

Of course, it wouldn't do to allow those same young officers to  _ know _ she found their appreciative glances flattering, so she kept her face neutral as she returned to the small table in the corner she had laid claim to on the journey. Setting her tea beside the pot roast and potatoes the galley had made for the Officer's lunch, she bowed her head and let her nose appreciate the aroma of the food. Potatoes were an essential part of the  _ Vigilant's _ waste management system, like all human space craft, and so were a staple food, practically omnipresent at meal time in some form. The meat had been heavily processed to give it longevity and shelf life, but humanity had been in space for forty millennia at this point, with plenty of experience in turning long shelf life food stores into palatable meals. While her head was bowed, she softly blessed the meal to the strength of her body and the needs of her Emperor, noting that the soft susurrus of conversation in the Ward Room ceased as she did so.

It was good that ship's chaplain was doing such an exemplary job in keeping up the religious zeal of the crew.

The meal blessed, she took up her utensils and began to eat; appearing to not notice conversation in the compartment resume. It was not that Constance and her Mission were the only females on board, the actual ratio of males to females in the crew was probably below sixty forty, but they were  _ new _ and novelty had a charm that was quite powerful to the human male. 

_ Not  _ just  _ the human male,  _ she admitted to herself as her mind brought up the image of Duke Wren from her memory. Perpetuation of the species was a sacrament, after all, and there was nothing sinful about the act of procreation. A forkful of pot roast paused halfway to her mouth. How long had it been since she'd enjoyed the attentions of a man? A year? Before her last mission, surely, but that would make her estimate plural, wouldn't it? Fortunately, before her thoughts could become more depressing the ship's bracelet on her wrist vibrated. 

The bracelet concealed a small computer and up link device that was tied into the power broadcast of the ship. It was specific to her, so her whereabouts were tracked in case she was needed and allowed for an interface to the ship's communications system. A quick sip of tea got her mouth clear and she pressed the acknowledgment button on the bracelet. Just off her tray, in the center of the table, the head and shoulders of the petty officer from communications appeared and her voice, coming from a small speaker microphone in the ear ring Constance was wearing, spoke. “Sorry to disturb your meal, Palatine, I have a call coming in from the planet for you. Duke Wren.”

Constance couldn't keep a look of surprise from her face, but was glad only she would be able to hear what the Duke had to say. “Put him through, thank you.”

A burst of static replaced the young woman's head with the Duke, looking dashing in billowed sleeve shirt that left a scandalous amount of his chest exposed. “My lady, no hologram could ever do your beauty justice.”

“While only I can hear you, your grace, I should warn you I'm at lunch in the Ward Room of the _Vigilant_ , so be mindful. What can I do for you?”

He sketched an elegant bow. “I come with glad tidings, I hope,” he informed her. “My Seneschal has been able to find suitable lodgings for your convent.”

“We're hardly worthy of the personal attention of your grace,” she replied. “But please extend my gratitude to your Seneschal.”

The grin on his face widened. “You can tell him yourself, if you like. The  _ actual _ reason I called was to invite you to a ball this evening. If you'll permit me the honor of escorting you, I should like to introduce you to the upper crust of society, or what passes for it in our little corner of the Empire.”

“A ball?” she replied, her mind rapidly considering the possibilities such an event would offer. As a method of practical intelligence on the current situation of the world, it was priceless. And it had the added bonus of spending additional time in the Duke's company. Time she found she was coming to enjoy. 

“Indeed. And you needn't concern Captain Newberry with your transportation needs, I have a shuttle already on its way up for your convenience.” He read the uncertainty on her face and turned the charm up a notch. “You should know, I simply won't accept 'no' for an answer. I've only been apart a handful of hours and already I must see you again.”

Constance smirked. “Oh, really?”

“Your disbelief wounds me, my lady!” he protested with a great drama. “Why, my food has no savor denied the light of your presence! And please, do not hesitate if you would like to bring your entire mission in escort. My humble abode shall surely shine the brighter for their brilliance.”

De La Concordia leaned forward and placed her chin in her hand. She doubted there was anything humble about the Ducal residence, though that  _ also  _ would be a window into the kind of man he was. Still, it wouldn't do to appear eager, so she drawled, “Your grace flirts with desperation with such excess.”

“Did I over sell it?” he asked with a laugh. “It did feel like I over sold it. Ah, well, the proverbial cat is out of the bag, the invitation is extended and cannot be withdrawn.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Not to worry, your grace, your faux pas is safe with me. And we'll be delighted to accept so over sold an invitation.”

“Be still, my beating heart!” he exclaimed. “I will count the minutes until your arrival.”

“Be sure to breathe,” she cautioned him. “Blue isn't your color.” He bowed again and with a rakish smile disappeared from the table. However, this only proved she was in great demand as the wrist bracelet was already vibrating again. Not bothering to wipe the smile from her face, the Palatine made an adjustment and moments later a hologram of Fiona graced her table. “Ah, Fiona, I was just about to call you.”

“Palatine?” she asked.

“Did you remember to pack your dancing shoes, Legatine?” The look of confusion on her mentor's face was priceless. “Turn out the mission in Mess Dress, Fiona,” she ordered around her mirth. “Evidently, we have a date, this evening.”

“I can't wait to hear the explanation for this one,” Fiona chuckled.

“Me too,” De La Concordia shot back. Then paused when the hologram of her newly promoted Executive Officer didn't leave the table. “Something else, Legatine?”

“Yes, ma'am. I have notification from the CIC, there is a destroyer coming along side us; the HMAV _Saint Arabella._ ”

Constance's eyebrow rose as she finished chewing her current mouthful and swallowed it. “Reverend Mother Winters? Here, already?”

“Evidently she put our troublesome Inquisitor at the top of her to do list.” Vander replied as her protege wolfed down a last morsel. “Eat quickly, I'll meet her and bring her to your office.” Constance's eyes did her thanking for her as Fiona's hologram snapped off and gave her just enough time to get enough food so her stomach would not growl at an embarrassing time. That accomplished, she handed her plate and glass over to the Steward of the Wardroom and directed her feet quickly to her office.

* * *

De La Concordia was able to beat Fiona and the Reverend Mother to her office, but not by much. Still she was able to get the coffee pot going so she could offer refreshment to her superior and catch her breath in sufficient time to collect her thoughts. She was just pouring out the cups where there came the door tone. “Come,” she commanded and the door opened on the Reverend Mother and Legatine Vander. Constance placed the cup on her desk to formally drop a curtsy. “Reverend Mother, we are honored by your presence. Will you rest yourself and join me for refreshment?”

“No time for formality, Constance,” Abaigail told her as she and Fiona entered the little bulkhead and paused for Vander to close and dog the hatch shut. “Though I will have some of that coffee,” she said to soften her arrival and swept over to hug Constance and kiss her forehead. “The Emperor guide and protect you, my daughter.”

“Your insight makes me wise, Reverend Mother,” she replied. “Please, sit. Cream and Sugar I believe?” Abigail nodded, adding the condiments to her coffee and stirring it to her liking. “I take it my message reached you, what is your will?”

The warmth left Abigail's face as she stirred her coffee. “Constance, what is your opinion of this fool Jonas? How serious is he about what he desires?” A shadow as equally grave fell across Constance's face as she handed a cup to Fiona before pouring her own.

“Serious enough to suggest it to my face, in striking distance.” De La Concordia sighed and shook her head as she returned to her desk and sat. “I wish I'd killed him by reflex. To answer you, Reverend Mother, I believe he means to have the ship's surgeon carve on him until he thinks he'll be able to pass as a Sister. Then to don our raiments and dishonor us. If I allow it, I risk dishonoring our entire order and if I refuse I risk civil war in the **Ecclesiarchy.** ”

The Reverend Mother turned to her other Sister. “Fiona? What is your opinion?”

The Legatine sat up a bit straighter in her chair and ran a hand over her shaved scalp that was trying to regrow from her Rite. “Reverend Mother, it is not my place to...”

“Don't hide behind rules with me, Fi, we've known each other too long,” Abigail scolded her.

“Alright, Abby,” Vander replied. “Yes, I agree with Constance. He's just the sort of little snake that would turn this into a major schism. He'll push until he gets his way or is flat refused and then he'll call a Crusade. He thinks his office protects him from our third alternative, so he has either some level of courage, or is a fool. I have no doubt he would follow through with this surgical blasphemy.”

Winters sighed again and let her gaze wander between her old friend and her protege. “There is, ladies a  _fourth_ option. One I dearly hoped would not be necessary, but I don't see any alternative. Yet, you both agree he will not back down, therefor we must indulge his loathsome request, but on  _our_ terms.”

Constance frowned. “What terms could we offer that would allow him to impersonate a Sister while not allowing a man under arms in our ranks?”

Suddenly all of Abigail Winter's age settled on her and she looked every bit her two hundred plus years. From her coffee, she looked and fixed her sternest gaze on Constance. “With me, I have brought the still living, but mortal remains of Sister Rachel...Winter.”

“Rachel died?” Fiona demanded, horrified. 

“A training accident,” Abigail replied, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “She fell off a Rhino tank and her head struck the side armor on the way down. We tried everything, even a Psyker, but...” The Reverend Mother was remarkably stoic. “My daughter is with the Emperor, but her body is here and, I am informed, there is a qualified surgeon on this ship who can maintain survo-skulls...”

Constance's face went white. “Reverend Mother...?”

At the same moment, Fiona leapt to her feet. “Abby, you can't be serious...!”

Reverend Mother Winter slapped the desk she sat before with the palm of her hand so sharply it sounded like a thunderclap. “Do  _not_ make this harder for me!” she declared with a quiet force that did what it needed without volume. “Our choices are war or dishonor or...sacrifice! I choose Sacrifice, as befits our Order and our Master!” She turned to her old friend, her gaze steel and her eyes on fire. “Fiona, my sister, go and collect up this little monster and bring him here so he can choose.”

Vander stood slowly, and though there were tears in her eyes, she kept them there. “If he refuses, I will strike him dead.”

“No,” Winter declared somberly. “I will. On your way.”

Fiona bowed with great dignity. “Yes, Reverend Mother.” She headed to the hatch, already talking to her ship bracelet. “Security alert, locate Jonas Merle.”

* * *

Vander's long legs ate distance, even with a ship the size of the  _ Vigilant. _ Even though her face was stern, stern enough that the ships' personnel hastily stepped out of her way, her thoughts were a chaotic mess. She had wondered why Abigail had been so distant when she had arrived on Banudan, now many things made much more sense. A part of her wept at the loss of her friend's daughter, and more so at the defilement of her remains all for the pleasure of a self serving little nobody.

Who, it figured, had not even bothered to rise yet.

With in short order, she had arrived back at the visiting officer's quarters on the ship where Constance herself had a cabin, as well as the rest of the mission. As she made her way down the corridors, a door opened, revealing of all people, Eloheim Advance Ruth Whitworth who was emerging from a cabin Fiona knew was not hers. She was also in a rather disheveled condition that could best be described as 'rode hard and put away wet.' “Whitworth,” Fiona snapped, and the smile melted off the face of the young NCO at her approach.

She gave a little jerk as if trying to come to attention and restore her uniform to a presentable condition at the same time. “Legatine!”

“At ease,” Vander ordered as she passed. “Your head out of your ass, girl?”

“Yes, Legatine. I mean, I appreciate...”

Over her shoulder, Fiona snapped, “Don't mention it. With me, now.” Ruth trotted to catch up to the older woman while getting her Day Habit in a more presentable condition. “Back me up, take no action before me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ruth replied, unconsciously falling in step with her superior and getting her game face on in remarkable speed. She noted the older woman's wink at her and allowed herself a smile of the cat that got the cream variety. “I hope I haven't pissed in my own beer too badly, Legatine.”

Fiona found that funny and chuckled darkly. “You're young, learn from your mistakes and don't repeat them and you'll do fine.”

“Thank you, Sister.” 

“Twenty seven fifty one,” Vander said to herself. “Here we are.” She paused and disdained the door sensor to beat on the door with a closed fist. “Jonas Merle! Open in the name of the Emperor of Mankind!”

Two doors, the next down the hall, and the one on the other side of the hall opened, their occupants saw a pair of Battle Sisters in the hallway and promptly decided it was none of their business. Those doors closed as Twenty Seven Fifty One opened. “What's the meaning of this?” the Inquisitor demanded.

“Jonas Merle, you are summoned to the presence of Canoness-Preceptor Abigail Winters,” she declared with the voice of a thunderstorm. “You can come on your feet, or in chains, how do you answer?” The eyes of the weasel like man opened bit as he began to comprehend his situation. 

“On...on my feet,” he stammered. 

“Wise choice,” Vander retorted as she reached in getting a handful of the jacket Jonas was wearing to pull him from his cabin and roughly searched him for weapons. Finding none, the Battle Sister propelled him down the hall towards the Palatine's office. Once or twice he thought to either protest his treatment, or attempt to ferret out information to what he was facing, but Fiona Vander was stone faced and in no mood to entertain his cowardice, and each attempt was met with silence and a shove to encourage a faster pace.

When they arrived at the office, Ruth stepped around her superior's hostage and pressed the call button by the door, then posted herself there, making it clear they would not be disturbed while she lived. Fiona gave the younger woman a nod of respect and when Constance opened the door, Vander took the inquisitor by the shoulder and frog marched him into the cabin.

The door closed with awful finality behind her.

* * *


	8. Chapter Eight: Sacrifice and Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reverend Mother Winter's sacrifice is revealed and the Mission prepares to attend Duke Wren's ball.

**Chapter Eight**

**Sacrifice and Celebration**

Jonas Merle had been afraid many times in his life.

He had been afraid when he was selected to join the Ordo Hereticus that he would not be able to pass the qualifications and training. When he had been selected to become an Inquisitor, he was afraid he would be found wanting himself or executed for heresy. Then, on his first assignment free of supervision he had come face to face with the Chaos the Emperor's armed forces fought so endlessly against and he came to understand what _true_ fear really was. Pain, discomfort, torture, death, these were temporary things, laughable to be feared of now that he fully comprehended exactly what the nature of evil really was.

Understood that there _were_ fates far worse than death that would last _forever_ .

It was then that Jonas Merle had internalized the faith that he had paid lip service to his entire life. He had looked deeply into the abyss, saw what awaited should the forces of mankind lose their perpetual war; and had the denizens of the Warp look back into him. It was then that Jonas Merle _believed_ .

It was this belief that had given him the courage to say and do things his previous self would never have had the temerity to do. It let him stare down and shout at hardened Battle Sisters, let him look them in the eye, see their disdain and scorn for him, to bear their threats of violence and the actual deed of it so long as they did what he wanted them to do. His ego didn't matter, what his belief demanded was far too important to let his own discomfort get in the way of.

So when he was hauled from his cabin and frog marched into the office of the Palatine to face her, her disgraced mentor and, of all people, Reverend Mother Winter, he knew his own life hung in the balance, and he hardened his will to do whatever he had to so that his mission would succeed.

There was nothing more important than the death of Cameron Wren.

Jonas licked his lips as he felt the breasts of Fiona Vander in his back and her hands on his shoulders. It was a tight grip, like a vice, not painful, yet, but the promise was certainly there. “Reverend Mother Winter,” he started with and surprised himself how calm he sounded. “It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“I rather doubt it,” she replied, the scorn in her voice palpable. She picked up a data-slate from the desk beside her and held it up. “I have here the preliminary report of the loyalty test of Cameron Wren,” she drawled. “Do you know what was found?”

Jonas chose his words carefully. “I am willing to bet they did not find any sign of disloyalty.”

“You _are_ betting,” she corrected him. “With your life. And you are correct. Computer experts have gone over his records with a fine tooth comb, his person and personal papers have been thoroughly searched and he has taken all of this in good humor and steadfast loyalty. Do you know what the penalty is for laying false allegations of treason against a loyal subject?”

The Inquisitor raised his chin. “I do, and I stand by my accusation. Cameron Wren is a traitor, a heretic and an enemy of mankind.”

Reverend Mother Winter rolled her eyes and laid the data-slate back on the desk. “So you claim. Palatine De La Concordia has forwarded to me a request, by you, that you intend to invoke your privilege of the Inquisition to hide yourself amongst her Mission by impersonating an Adepta Sororitas through some form of surgery. Is this true?”

“It is true, and it is also my right as an Inquisitor.”

The old woman's eyes became steel and despite her white hair or the lines on her face, the mask slipped and the hardened killer underneath the genteel Reverend Mother shone through. “What madness took you to make you think I would allow such a blasphemy?”

“Take care,” he whispered. “I have been diligent in my own reports and communiques with my superiors. They know the threats you have made, the shoddy disrespect I have endured in my duty and they will not believe any imaginative fiction you come up with to try and hide my murder.”

“Take care yourself,” the Palatine growled, speaking for the first time. “Your petty spite has brought the Ecclesiarchy to the brink of civil war!” It was clear the Palatine had a good bit more to say, but a soft gesture from the Reverend Mother caused her to hold her tongue and defer to her superior.

None of the steel had left Abigail Winter's eyes as she stood and walked over. With Fiona's hands on his shoulders, Jonas could not retreat, so he stiffened his spine and looked up at her, daring her to strike him. “I die innocent and loyal!” he declared, but his voice broke at the end and spoiled what he thought was his final defiance before death.

“Die?” drawled the Reverend Mother. “Do you intend to commit suicide?”

Jonas blinked and some of the surety left him. “No. I...I...thought...”

“Don't misunderstand me,” Abigail continued with a vague gesture at her subordinates in the room. “Both of my daughters would dearly _love_ to kill you. I would be lying if I didn't remind you I entertained the notion myself. But we are creatures of _duty_ , Inquisitor; we live our lives by it. You have informed us your duty requires us to indulge you to masquerade in our ranks. It is our duty to inform _you_ that every other Inquisitor that has done so has paid with their life; not from nefarious actions from us. We live our lives on the battlefield, Jonas Merle and if you put on the habit of our order you will truly swear our vows and you will be expected to do everything any other sister would be required to do.”

“I'm not...” He started, but suddenly there was a knife at his throat and he wasn't sure whose hand held it. “...I...”

“Consider your next words _very_ carefully, Jonas Merle,” the Reverend Mother told him quietly. “My duty requires me to allow you to invoke your privilege, but there is _nothing_ in that duty that exempts you from being required to live up to the oaths and duties of that uniform.”

Jonas tried to swallow his fear, but his Adam's apple was stopped by the blade against his throat and would not allow it to pass. “Reverend Mother, I will gladly pledge to do my best and swear any oath that does not interfere with my duty to the Inquisition, but even I know I am not physically capable of meeting the requirements of a Battle Sister.”

Abigail's eyes were ablaze with emotion. “And if I offer you a way to do so, what would you say?” Her thin finger came up in caution. “Here is your last chance to turn aside, Jonas Merle! Is your conviction such that you will give up your very body in the Emperor's service?”

The thin man's chin rose just a bit. “I am oath bound. I will _prove_ Cameron Wren is a traitor though it cost me everything in the service of the Emperor.”

Though her eyes threatened to burn his very soul, he met her gaze and did not blink. At long last, her finger dropped and the blade left his neck. “So be it,” she declared. The fire in her eyes died and she looked over his shoulder at Vander and nodded. “My Sister, take the Inquisitor to the Surgeon. He knows what to do.”

“I will not disappoint you, Reverend Mother,” he told her, but she turned away and heavily walked back to her chair.

“Get him out of my sight,” she whispered.

Uncharacteristically, Fiona did not immediately obey; though her grip on his shoulders intensified and was just on the edge of pain. “Connie, he'll need a minder, a teacher...”

“Who will have to be in on this,” Constance finished. She turned to the Reverend Mother who was sinking into her chair. Almost imperceptibly she nodded and Constance's glance was all the permission Fiona needed. She wheeled the Inquisitor about as the last thing Jonas expected happened. As he was being shoved out the door of the Palatine's office, he turned at a sound he couldn't believe he was hearing. Over his shoulder, he saw Reverend Mother Winter lay her head on her hands on Constance's desk and began to weep.

Then the door was shut as his mind spun, trying to understand what all of this meant. “Whitworth, you're with me,” Vander ordered and the sister fell in step with them to the closest travel tube. The _Vigilant_ was just shy of five and a half kilometers from stem to stern and the best part of a kilometer abeam at her widest. Such massive size made it impossible to move only on foot with anything like a timely manner. Thus the ship had system of rapid transport, part subway train, part elevator. The tube served as the main conduit of systems throughout the ship, stopping at central hubs for lines that moved up and down or port and starboard from the two main lines that traversed the ship fore and aft.

There was a brief respite from the march as the two women and the Inquisitor awaited the next tram. “What is going on?” Jonas demanded. “Why did Canoness Winter start crying?”

“What do you care, coward?” Vander snapped back, her face painted in scorn only a shade or two from pure hatred. “You're getting your way!”

“Legatine?” Ruth asked cautiously.

The tram arrived, causing the doors to snap open. Vander restrained herself from shoving her captive into the tram and chose not to answer until she was sure they would not be over heard. In a hoarse, terse voice she said, “The Inquisitor will be impersonating a Sister.” She saw the younger woman's eyes widen in full understanding of what was said and the consequences it implied. “It will be your duty to instruct him in what is expected of him, the vows he will swear and exactly what they demand of him.”

“He's a man!” Ruth protested.

Vander let loose a gallows laugh as she stared into the Inquisitors eyes. “Not for long,” she declared ominously and again Jonas felt the return of his old companion fear and he couldn't help but worry he had made a terrible mistake.

*** * ***

The air boiled and waved around the barrel of the Mezoa Pattern Melta Gun. With it's distinctive hiss the super heated plasma was spat down range boiling the water out of the air as it traveled, boring through a fifteen centimeter plate of armor that instantly glowed white at the impact site. The remaining stream of plasma flowed onto the steel like a hot needle that then half melted, half exploded through onto the back stop of the range. On a battlefield that empty space would have been the crew compartment of a tank or APC with messy, predictable results. “Point eight four,” declared Wendy Marks from behind the blast shield next to the armored form of the sister holding the Melta Gun.

The white visor of the Sabbat Pattern Helm rose to reveal the squarish face of Mary Cotton who was careful to keep the muzzle of the weapon pointed down range. “See, 'Supe? I told you the accumulator coil was sluggish.”

Wendy picked up a canister of compressed CO2 and sprayed the weapon to cool it enough to be save to handle. “Not enough for anybody to pick up without a timer,” she mumbled, making a gesture for the other sister open the weapon to get at the offending coil.

“I did,” Mary replied stubbornly.

“You're supposed to,” Marks shot back. “How many rounds did you put on the coil back there?” There was a pause as Mary worked the controls inside her armor and a hologram appeared over the weapon displaying it's diagnostic information. “Under a thousand? That's pretty light.”

“Yeah, well, there wasn't as much need for the Melta on Goshen IV.” Wendy got the coil out of the Melta and examined it in the light. “I keep it clean,” Mary protested, but the Sister Superior just shook her head.

“I don't think you haven't been,” she informed the other woman. “I don't see anything wrong with it, but go ahead and request a replacement from the ship's armorer.”

Mary closed the receiver cover and put it against her thigh were the grabber field in her armor would keep it. “Ugh, I hate dealing with those creepy machine heretics!”

It was with great force of will that Wendy kept her temper at dealing with this particular issue _again._ “The Adeptus Mechanicus were brought into the Imperium of Mankind by the Emperor himself. They bow to and venerate our Emperor and by law, commandment and precedent have indulgence for their genetic abnormality.”

“Mutant heretics,” muttered Mary as she backed away, towards her armor carrier so it could remove both her generator backpack and the fuel tank for the Mezoa that hung under it. The tank made safe and stowed, separate armatures deployed to remove the weapon from her thigh, separate it from the hoses to the tank, and returned it to the space for it in the carrier. Both were then locked away by the device into storage.

Sister Superior Marks raised her finger. “I'm not having this argument with you again, Cotton. The Emperor has converted, the Ecclesiarch has indulged and _you_ will obey.”

Mary bowed her head and gestured _Anjali mudra_ , while still in her armor which managed to make the humble posture of submission somewhat sarcastic. “I hear and obey the will of the Emperor,” she declared before turning back to the carrier and spreading her arms for it to free her from her armor.

The Sister Superior considered barking after her for the cheekiness of her retort, but decided that would only make her look weak as so decided to ignore it. “You probably won't even see one,” she declared as she gave a gesture to alert the Range Gang that the sisters were finished so they could clean up the mess of the used target. “Five thrones says you get it from a Navy Shipman and you don't even lay eyes on the Transmechanic.”

Down to the battle habit and her link suit, Cotton turned back to her Superior and held out her hand. “You're on, 'Supe! And you're out five thrones!”

Wendy slapped the other woman's palm to seal the bet. “Make sure your note is nice and crisp when you pay up, I like my Throne Gelt neatly pressed!”

“What's neatly pressed?” The new voice drew both women's attention to the hatch out into the gangway where Gretchen Wycroff was just coming through it.

“Hey, Gretch,” Wendy greeted, while Mary dropped a light curtsey to her squad leader.

“'Supe,” she declared.

Sister Superior Gretchen nodded her head at her squad mate to acknowledge her protocol, then turned to her fellow squad leader. “Sorry to hit you with this, Wendy, but I have to from the Palatine.”

Marks only shrugged as she handed the accumulator coil to Mary as the other sister walked past. “Orders are orders,” she commented philosophically. “Cotton, you're going in your Battle Habit?” The heavy weapons specialist paused in the door way with a grin.

“Get undressed in front of the Range Gang? I'd cause a riot!”

Gretchen turned to look over her shoulder. “Wherever you're going, double time it. I got a vox from the Legatine, we have to turn the Mission out in Mess Dress.”

“What for?” demanded Wendy as Mary tossed a salute and trotted off to wherever she was headed.

“I dunno, we just have to assemble in the Shuttle Bay in Mess Dress at seventeen hundred,” Gretchen told her. One of the Range Gang cautiously approached the two women, removed her hat and curtseyed deeply despite wearing a uniform with pants.

“Blessed Sister, may this humble Shipman address you?” Wendy and Gretchen shared a look, then Gretchen turned towards the young woman, and reached out to place her hand on the Shipman's head.

“Be blessed in the light of the Emperor, my daughter, and speak your mind.”

“The ship's chaplain is quite a zealot!” Wendy chuckled _sotto voce._ “I wonder if he's married?”

“Blessed Sister, forgive me for speaking out of turn, but I heard from others before I came on shift that the destroyer _Saint Arabella_ had come along side us and that a great lady of your revered Order came aboard.”

The question was painted on Gretchen's face as she turned to Wendy who shrugged her own ignorance. “Thank you, daughter, for bringing this news. You may return to your duties.” The Shipman curtseyed again as the Sister Superior withdrew her hand. “Wasn't the _Saint Arabella_ in orbit around Banudan when we left?”

“I think so,” Wendy replied. “Why would Reverend Mother Winter chase us down after sending us out here?”

“Hopefully to save us from being stranded out here!” Gretchen quipped. “We must be doing inspections or something. Have your squad ready.”

“I'm on top of my squad,” said Wendy as she walked over to the armor carrier Cotton had left and laid her hand on it so it would grant her authorization to move it. Oblidingly, it rose up on a suspensor field and followed her back to Gretchen. “What did the Palatine order you to tell me?”

Wycroff's face blushed for some reason, though Wendy caught it. “Uh, I am to have you go over any paperwork I have to do concerning Sister Hamilton.”

“Jennifer?” demanded Marks. “What for? She's your squad, not mine.” Gretchen's blush deepened a bit and she tapped the ends of her index fingers together. “Shut up!” Marks exclaimed. “Your own squad sister?”

“It...it just happened,” Gretchen stammered. “And we got the ok from Palatine De La Concordia.”

“You _admitted_ you...” Wendy trailed off at a sharp gesture from Wycroff and a tilt of her head towards the Range Gang who were studiously still cleaning up the slag from the steel target. They were also dilligently appearing to be paying no mind to the Sister's conversation. “And she's ok with that?” demanded Marks in a much more discreet tone.

“Keep it under your helmet, would ya?” Gretchen told her in an equally quite voice. “Yes, I told her; well, actually we both asked permission and she said so long as we are...discreet...and there's no favoritism she's willing to cut us some slack.”

“Emperor's Throne!” Wendy muttered. “I'd heard the Palatine was...unconventional, but this takes the Caba Nuts!” The two women left the range and began walking through the corridors towards the compartment serving as their barracks.

“Hey, she _did_ say she wouldn't have if we were in a normal posting.”

Wendy waved off that with a vague gesture. “That would have been the answer from any other Palatine I've ever heard of,” she declared. “So, is this a battlefield thing or...?” Gretchen shrugged her own ignorance.

“I didn't plan this, it just happened.”

“Hey, at least you'll get some trim on the regular,” Wendy groused. “I've been so busy I haven't had time to look, let alone find somebody to do his duty to the Emperor and perpetuate the species.”

Gretchen elbowed her friend in the arm. “Oh, come down off the throne, you're on the same shots I am and neither us have any Canoness' permission to bring a new subject into the galaxy!”

The grin on Wendy's face was lecherous. “He doesn't have to know that!” They arrived at the barracks and with a gesture, Marks sent Cotton's armor carrier to her bunk. “Attention on deck!” she commanded, causing conversation to cease and all of the assembled Sister to rise and face them. “Orders have come down from on high, ladies. We're to report to the shuttle bay at seventeen hundred in Mess Dress.”

A chorus of groans filled the room for a bit, causing Gretchen to frown. “Knock it off!” she ordered. “And make sure of your spit and polish, the _Saint Arabella_ came along side us and the rumor is a VIP of our order got off. One plus one equals two, ladies so I want the squad turned out and looking sharp. Go over your kits now and be ready for inspection before we assemble!”

“That goes double for you, my girls!” Marks echoed. “You've got some time, use it wisely! As you were!”

* * *

Doctor Julius Boucher was a grizzled Navy veteran in his ninth decade. His left eye, and a good chunk of the left side of his head were replaced by cybernetics that had saved his life years and battles previous. The soft red glow from the electronic eye gave his craggy features a sinister air even as they were slightly hidden by the blue white haze of a sterility field. Most of the operating theater was cast in shadow due to the intense cone of light from the ceiling centered on the bed. “This is the patient?” his gravely voice asked as he gestured to a woman, also dressed in surgical attire who looked like she might be a Sister Hospitalier.

The hairs on the skin of both women and their Inquisitor charge stood up as they stepped through the sterility field over the hatch. Fiona propelled Jonas towards the operating table the doctor stood beside. “He is,” she snapped. “I'll need your oath of silence, Doctor.”

“It is on file,” Boucher replied, gesturing towards the bed for Merle to get up on it. “However, I realize my lady needs to hear it, so; 'I swear on my honor, life and immortal soul, as a loyal man of His Imperial Majesty's Royal Navy that which I see here I will not see, that which I know of these events I will not know, that which I hear will never leave my lips as the Emperor's Own Man, So Help Me.'”

“Do I get a say in this?” Jonas asked. “We don't talk about what I'll...”

“No,” the doctor replied as he took the coat the Inquisitor had taken off away from him and casually threw it aside. He pushed the smaller man onto the bed where an immobility field snapped on, penning him to it.

“Wait, I can take my clothes off, don't cut them off!”

“I won't,” the doctor replied as he fiddled with a control with the metalic cluster of machines his left hand, which was also a replacement, had become. Over Jonas' head the surgical armature came to life, multiple arms tipped in sinister looking tools reached down like some mechanical spider reaching for it's prey. “There's no need. Your head is clear.”

“My head?” Jonas asked as something stung him in his neck. “But, I thought...”

The world became unclear and indistinct as the red glow leaned over him. “Don't worry, I'll see your brain safe in it's new home.” Terror gripped Jonas, but it was so difficult to think, he didn't understand why. Darkness fell and the last thing he knew was the pounding of his heartbeat, unable to move or see.

*** * ***

Mary Cotton arrived at the master armory of the _Vigilant_ to be greeted by the pair of sailors under arms that were guarding it. It was situated at the end of long corridor with no other access or doors so that anyone entering it had no other destination. One of the Sailors stepped forward while his partner unslung his lasrifle and shouldered it. “Halt! Who approaches?” the senior demanded.

The Sister of Battle stopped and raised both hands. “Sister Mary Cotton, daughter of the Emperor, _Adepta Sororitas_.”

“State your business,” the petty officer demanded.

“I am sent of my Sister Superior in service of my weapon. I have a failing accumulator coil.”

The Petty Officer nodded. He worked a control and a vidscan unfolded from the wall on an armature. “Advance to the vidscan to be recognized.” Mary slowly walked forward, keeping her hands at her shoulders. The Battle Habit she wore would slow the lasgun, but not stop it and now was _not_ the time for an accidental discharge. She looked the vidscan in the lens and it's mechanical voice growled out from the vox.

“Cotton, Mary, Sister, _Adepta Sororitas_.”

The lasrifle was returned to being slung and the Petty Officer bowed. “You are welcome, Sister Cotton,” he said, returning to his post by the hatch. Mary lowered her hands and smiled at the two men.

“You honor the Emperor with your diligence,” she complimented as she opened the hatch and stepped through. Inside the armory was dark, well below standard illumination and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. “Hello?” she called, stepping in to find a pale skinned man in a Navy Shipman uniform behind a counter. He smiled, but froze when a voice more in common with the vidscan than a human through sounded out in the gloom.

“Who calls?”

Mary shuddered, looking at the Shipman, but he was trembling and wouldn't meet her gaze. To the darkness, she announced, “Sister Mary Cotton. I have a failing accumulator coil I need replaced.”

“Who has offended the spirit of your Melta Gun, Sister Mary Cotton?” the mechanical voice demanded. The Daughter of the Emperor kept careful control of her temper and her voice.

“No offense was given,” she declared. “It's just wearing out.”

The sound of metal on metal came from the darkness. “Do you speak in ignorance, or falsehood, Sister Mary Cotton?” The words shot through Mary's temper like a bolter through a chaos spawn.

Striding forward to the counter the Shipman stood behind, she snarled, “Say that to my face, heretic!” The Shipman dove under the counter, but that nearly escaped Mary's notice for, from the dark, a mechanical hand gripped the doorway and a misshapen _thing_ emerged from the darkness into the half light. It was wearing a red robe and hood that was in tatters, with three additional arms sprouting from it's hunched back as it came through the door, red light from _five_ cybernetic eyes glowing under the hood.

“I am not your enemy, Sister Mary Cotton,” came from the depths of the hood, behind what seemed to be a mask or respirator, the hoses of which came out the hood, and disappeared into the robe. “I serve the Omnissiah, who you call the Emperor, and we are both the weapon in his right hand. You are ignorant of the spirits of the machine and this is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Then prove your loyalty and replace this failing part,” she demanded, slamming the coil to the counter. One of the arms on the creature's back reached out and picked up the coil to hold it in front of the glowing lens.

“Such anger,” the metallic voice declared, grating on Mary's ears. “This is why the spirit is unhappy with you. You do not allow it the joy of its duty to the Emperor, but instead only force from it service of your hatred.” The glowing lights turned from the part to Mary directly. “Replacement will only doom a new spirit to the unhappiness you have caused this poor coil to suffer.”

“My joy is purging heretics and mutants in fire!” Mary growled.

The metallic hand put the coil back on the counter. “No. Seek the wisdom of the Emperor to see the truth of your anger, Sister Mary Cotton. Make your peace with the spirit of the coil, and we will speak again.”

Mary stared at the part on the counter while the thing shambled back into the darkness. For a moment, she considered mounting the counter and chasing it, but was unsure how much trouble she would get into killing the ship's armorer and thought the better of it. Snatching up the coil, she stormed out, only just keeping her temper.

* * *

Once more in her cabin, Constance sighed and shook her head at the strange road her life seemed to be traveling. Never in her life would she have thought she would have to console a Reverend Mother. Let alone even see one so lose control of her emotions it might be needed. In truth, she was awestruck by Canoness Winter's devotion to their order and Emperor.

She realized she had a new yardstick to judge her own loyalty and devotion against.

After what seemed a life time of holding the other woman as she at last poured out the grief bottled up inside her, she allowed the Canoness time to regain her dignity and escorted her to a guest cabin and saw her ensconced in it. Constance had been about to contact Duke Wren to offer her apologies, but once Reverend Mother Winter understood what her arrival had interrupted she insisted that Constance attend. Going so far as to command the Palatine to leave her so that De La Concordia would have time to prepare to attend the ball she had been invited to. She had broached no argument, ordering the younger woman to her cabin to prepare and had actually forced a painful smile for Constance as she left.

Constance's palm opened the small locker that served as her closet in the cabin and removed her most formal uniform from it's protective bag and laid it out on her bunk to inspect it with a critical eye. Like most of the uniforms of her order, first and foremost it was designed to emphasize her femininity and somewhat exaggerate her womanhood. To this end, it started with a simple, bell sleeved gown in red that fell, fitted closely to her waist in the same cut as the Battle Habit. Like the armor it mimicked, it offered a level of protection against blades and certain, low caliber, projectiles as it's designers realized a Sister of Battle was never really off the battlefield. Over this was a corset and bustier in black embossed with a silver _Fleur-de-lis,_ the symbol of the Adepta Sororitas. The leather like material of the corset defined and displayed Constance's figure as way of emphasizing her femininity; the mission of every uniform of the Sisters of Battle. As it rested over her vital organs, it's armor value was sufficient against most chemical projectiles and would even turn a power sword for a brief while.

Again her Inquisitorial Rosette served her as a belt, draped around her waist to lay against her left hip and below, a straight skirt of red fell to her ankles with slits for both legs to her waist that gave elegance and complete freedom of movement. Red leggings protected her modesty and high black boots completed the uniform.

A red wimple framed her face while it concealed her ebony hair and neck, with it's _couvrechef_ veil over her head, in red and gold draped around her shoulders and announced her rank. Constance lightly stroked the white Maltese Cross and Heart indicating her membership of the Order of the Valorous Heart on the sleeve of the gown, then steeled herself. The past was the past, and it was time to get on with the future. She separated the uniform into it's component pieces and stripped off her Day Habit to don it.

First, nude, she knelt on the hard, cold deck, headless of her own discomfort, towards the double headed eagle, the Imperial Aquila, embossed on the far wall of her cabin. Bowing her head, she softly recited her prayer of dedication, committing herself anew to the Emperor's Service. Humbling herself, she asked forgiveness for the awe she felt at Canoness Winter's sacrifice and for the wisdom and strength to lead her mission and be worthy of such devotion and trust. She ended by rising from her kneel to genuflect herself, raising her hand over her heart and swearing to bring glory to the Emperor or to die in the attempt of it.

Purified, she rose, keeping her head bent in submission, to slowly and carefully don the uniform. The process was somewhat lengthy as she paused on each piece, considering in reverence the symbolism of the garment, the battles she had fought and the recognition the awards symbolized until at last, she was dressed and standing before her mirror, being certain of the drape and hang of the uniform. Constance carefully laid the sash of her acclaim across her right shoulder, her medals and a pair of Purity Seals hanging from it, until it sat properly on her hip, the long knife that hung from it secure behind her Inquisitorial Rosette.

On whim, or perhaps a desire to show some amount of consideration to her host, she picked up the bolter pistol his world had created and put it into the garter holster on her right thigh instead of the issued laspistol that distinguished her as an officer of the Order. She found it fit the holster well, despite not having been made for it, and was even a bit lighter on her leg.

“Yes,” she told herself with a smile. “A _very_ large order.”

Satisfied, she pulled on a pair of scarlet gloves that reached over her elbow, well up the bell sleeve of the gown such that her face was the only visible skin. That accomplished, she pulled open the hatch to her cabin and began walking towards the nearest travel tube station. This took her past the compartment that was serving as the barracks for her Mission, which opened as she walked by.

Coming out was Fiona, resplendent in the same gown, minus only a few touches of rank, her own head covered only in a scarlet wimple that fell around her shoulders in place of the blonde mane she had worn ever since Constance could remember. Fiona curtseyed to her Palatine, which Constance nodded to acknowledge, feeling terribly out of place by their positions being reversed. The two women fell in step, several steps ahead of the rest of the mission who, having seen the number of awards on Sister Vander's Acclaim Sash were obviously awestruck.

There was not a single open space on the garment for another award to be worn.

As they walked, Fiona carefully caught De La Concordia's eye and with her hands, used the silent battle language of the sisterhood so that they could not be over heard. _It's done_ , her hands proclaimed.

_Emperor help us,_ Constance replied with her own hands. _Emperor help us._

_Amen_ , was Fiona's only response.

* * *


	9. Chapter Nine: The Last Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mission Arrives at Duke Wren's Ball

**Chapter Nine**

**The Last Party**

Life returned slowly to Jonas Merle, as though from a great distance being drug every step of the way; the feet of the condemned on their way to the gallows. The first sense to return was the oldest, the sense of pain. From a dark, heavy soup rose up ache as if his entire body had been given over to those who loathed him and he was beaten to within a nanometer of his life. Next came sound as he moaned and with it was a sudden, horrible feeling of being out of sorts. The voice he heard, that he _knew_ had come from his vocal cords, for he had felt the vibration in his throat and the air pass his lips, was also not his own.

Like a dam suddenly breached by torrential rains, a thousand sensations assaulted him, things that felt different from how his memory said they should be. As the moan he had heard was too high and too soft to have been his voice, the skin he wore felt different, there was flesh where there should not be and in a horrible moment he realized it was missing where it should be. Before sight could make its untriumphant return, something wet and cold was pressed on his face, over them. “Lie still,” a voice commanded. “If you begin to move, you might pull out the leads.”

“Everything hurts,” he managed to make his throat say, but now he was _certain_ it was not his voice. This voice was light, higher than any note he could sing, even raw and course as it was now. Whoever was holding the sponge to his eyes found that funny and laughed.

“Pain is the oldest companion of womanhood,” she told him. “Get used to it.” Jonas tried to turn towards the sound of the voice, but the hand became firm to stop him. “Don't move,” she ordered. “Not yet. When you're ready, we'll put you in the recovery gel for a bit.”

“Who are you?” The woman's voice asked at Jonas' mental command.

The firmness left her hand and she began to gently daub his face. “My name is June, I am a Sister Hospitalier. I know who you are, or, rather, who you _were_. Rest easy sister, you will live to serve the Emperor yet.”

Jonas considered that for a long moment as he tried to take a mental inventory. His chest seemed to weigh more with each breath than it should and when he slightly shifted his legs, he became aware of the feeling of fabric firmly against his abdomen as it never had before, in addition to a void that was entirely novel and set his heart to pounding. “So,” June's voice told him as the sponge was withdrawn and he heard it dipped in water and rung out. “Let us talk about you.” The sponge returned, cool against his eyes and forehead. “Your name is Rachael. You are thirty two and a Sister of the Order of the Valorous Heart. Or, rather, you were. You have been reassigned to the Mission of Palatine Constance De La Concordia on Thuria. You are a Rhino commander, but you fell off your APC and injured your head when you fell. You likely have some level of amnesia so you were attached to this Mission to convalesce and recover your memory.”

“Rhino?” the voice _she_ was beginning to recognize as her own asked.

“It's an armored personnel carrier, a kind of tank,” June told her. “When you're better, you can read over your personnel file and see if that brings back any memories.”

“I have a personnel file?” Rachael asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Of course you do, Daughter of the Emperor,” June's voice replied. “Every Sister of Battle, every servant of the Emperor does. It lists the battles you have fought, the honors you've won, everything about you. You should read it when you're up and about.”

Rachael sighed and couldn't keep herself from nodding. “I will.”

“You should,” June replied. “You should always honor those who gave up everything for you.” There came a hum of machinery and the bed underneath Rachael began to slowly lift her into a seated position. “Alright,” the nurse declared after the light against Rachael's eyelids lowered. “Open your eyes, slowly.”

Rachael willed her eyes to open, but found them slightly sticky and it was a bit of work to get them to open, despite the sponge bath they'd had. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the lights of the diagnostic equipment and a pair of candles, well away from the bed. Her vision was blurry and there were halos around all the lights in her vision. She blinked several times and looked down to see the body of a lovely young woman, clad only in a medical modesty bra and panties in black.

The medical bra only pressed her bust against her chest to hold it in place, but it seemed there was a fair amount to secure. Milk white hair fell into her line of vision, longer than she remembered, but not as long as Palatine De La Concordia. Around her navel was a tattoo of the _fleur-de-lis_ , the size of her palm in bold, dark ink against a peaches and cream skin. There were several electronic and IV Lines about her body, running out to the monitors that were providing light. Nothing felt their right length or distance, legs that seemed too long curved out of hips that were wider than they should be. Rachael tried very hard to remember and the last memory she had was fear, biting, terrible fear. That fear awoke as she realized there was no way to her recollection that her previous body could have been altered into this one.

She looked up, seeing a young woman, with olive complexion and black hair looking at her and something about her face seemed familiar. She was wearing nurses scrubs with bits of technology attached to them that he didn't recognize. “June...?” she asked.

“Sister Hospitalier June Campanelli, at your service, Sister Rachael,” the nurse confirmed. She reached up and began to disconnect the leads slowly and methodically. “How do you feel?”

“Dizzy,” Rachael replied. “Nothing feels right. How did they do this?”

“There was some emergency brain surgery,” June replied. “You've been in a coma for two months. We were worried we would have to pronounce you brain dead and harvest your organs.” The expression on the nurse's face hardened and her grip on Rachael's arm tightened unpleasantly. “But, let's not talk about the past here,” she said with great weight. “Let's get you into the tank so you can recover.”

Once the lines were cleared, June fitted a respirator over Rachaels face, and pulled the mask tight. Once that was done, she helped her to stand and led the way slowly to an empty recovery tank. The nurse had her sit on the floor of the tank while she made sure the air hose was secure and flowing, then stepped out and closed the door. Immediately, the tank began to fill with thick, yellow green liquid. It was just slightly warm against her skin and picked her up off the floor to float as it covered her head and it was even harder to see the nurse that was watching her. She saw June pick up a Vox and in her ear she heard, “We'll speak again when we can be more discreet.”

Rachael nodded her understanding and watched the nurse walk over to the desk at the edge of what she could just make out through the gel and the glass and sit down. Deep in the darkest recesses of her mind, Rachael remembered, _don't worry, I'll see your brain safe in it's new home_ , and shuddered, in fear of what had happened to her.

* * *

The shuttle Duke Wren had sent up was not a military model, but evidently his private one. The Sisters were welcomed aboard by a liveried steward into a plush, yet understated flying palace. Leather was the seating fabric of choice, while the appointments were burled wood and polished brass. Once they were comfortably seated in the expansive and actually comfortable acceleration couches, the shuttle departed the _Vigilant_ as gentle as a feather falling off a bird's wing. Constance was used to military pilots who took 'edge of the envelope' to mean 'how can I break this, but not have to pay for it', though she had traveled TDY on civilian craft when nothing military was going the right way. While certainly more conscious of their paying customers, the Duke's pilot put them all to shame by Constance looking out the window, wondering when they would depart, to see the _Vigilant_ falling away behind them.

It was easily the smoothest take off she'd ever experienced.

From there, champagne was served, bringing an amused smile to Legatine Vander's face as she accepted the flute and lightly touched hers to that of her protege and superior officer. “Obviously, Palatine, we picked the wrong MOS divisions.”

Constance sat back in the very comfortable chair and crossed her legs, savoring a taste of the sparkling wine. It was local, but a light, sweet vintage and well crafted. “I could get used to this,” she admitted. “Did I miss count, or...?”

“I left Whitworth behind to mind our new charges,” Fiona replied. At the confused look from Constance, she continued, “Reverend Mother Winter transferred a Sister Hospitalier to us as well, to mind... _her_ ...and we did need a medic.”

“Poor girl,” De La Concordia observed. “I'm not sure which of us will have the worse time.

Fiona arched an eyebrow at her. “Babysitting captain grumpus or putting up with stuffed shirts at a party? I'll pick the party, thanks. At least there's dancing.”

“Maybe for you,” Constance retorted. “I'll be frantically taking mental notes to try and keep up with who is who.” Again Vander smirked at her and gestured with her flute.

“I thought you'd try to do something like that, so I planned ahead and drafted a co-conspirator.” Constance frowned and turned her head to find Baldermort's skull floating a meter or so behind her. The half robot slave dipped on his suspensor field and his voice managed to sound contrite.

“Good evening, Palatine,” the Vox declared. “I have taken the liberty of updating myself on the Who's Who entries for the local gentry, should your memory fail you, or may the Emperor decree, you actually decide to enjoy yourself. Now, no matter what you do this evening, my lady, _do_ try to make time for fun.”

“I'm conspired against!” Constance declared with good humor. “I should have you both up on charges!” Before Fiona could laugh or defend herself further, the ship's speakers came to life and a pleasant, professional sounding baritone came forth.

“Good evening, my ladies, this is your Captain speaking. It's a crisp twenty two degrees this evening with clear skies over New Atlanta. If you look out the starboard side of the space craft you'll have a magnificent view of D achaigh, the Ducal Residence. We have priority clearance of the air space so we'll be setting down in about five minutes or so. On behalf of the Stewards and crew I'd like to offer our gratitude to being of service and we hope you enjoyed the flight. Stewards begin your prelanding check lists.” A steward came by to collect up the empty flutes on his way aft and out of habit Constance made sure her seat belt was buckled.

“Despite my protestations, Baldermort, I am glad to have you along.”

The servo-skull floated down until it was hovering above a chair as if sitting in it. “It is an honor to be of service, Palatine.” Constance smiled as she turned to look out the far window. She was on the wrong side of the craft to get the full effect of the sun glinting off copper roof tiles that gleamed in the last rays of the setting sun. Despite that, Dachaigh, was almost modest for it's purpose. The Gothic and Neo Baroque style sprawled in an organic manner that suggested a central house that had been added to over the centuries. It was surrounded with magnificent gardens that were glowing in the fading twilight and a collection of limousines were parked on the various dives showing the Sisters had evidently arrived fashionably late.

The Captain's landing was as flawless as his take off had been, touching down on Thuria with out so much of a caress as would put a ripple in another glass of champagne. They had touched down on a private facility, not far from the main house. Already the ground crew was making the ship safe and servicing it; a stair on wheels was being pushed up as the Steward undogged the hatch and locked it open. Constance unbuckled her seat, then stood, turning aft to address her mission who were also rising, drawing their faces towards her. “My sisters,” she declared, being certain she had their attention. “Tonight is a new beginning for us. This is our new home, and the flaky stuffed shirts we'll meet are the upper crust of this society. I expect your decorum; you will be the face of our order to those who are our charges and neighbors, and above all, a certain level of respectability for the first impressions we make tonight. The first splash in a pond whose ripples we are adrift in.”

“Yes, Palatine,” they chorused. For a long moment, Constance keep her countenance stern, making eye contact with each of her soldiers, then allowed herself to smile.

“Alright, I've said what I had to. We're not on leave, but I'm reminded we are not on duty all the time and I even had someone pray to the Emperor that I would enjoy myself. These are the people you swore to lay down your lives to protect. So I'm telling you, go remember why. Enjoy yourselves, my sisters, dance the night away and make friends. Now go be young.”

Twenty two faces lit up as they shouted, “Sororitas!”

With the smile of a commander certain her troops would not let her down, Constance led the way down the stairs of the little luxery spacecraft. There, she was surprised to find the Duke waiting, a matching grin on his face as he watched her descend. There, he swept the hat of his uniform off and bowed with all the grace and panauche of a stage swashbuckler. “Ladies, you are most welcome in my humble home. Palatine De La Concordia, will you grant me the honor of your escort?”

Constance's smile widened just a touch. “Never let it be said you do things in half measures, your grace. The honor of your company is entirely mine.” She took the arm he offered and allowed him to lead up the walk towards his home. The sun's rays splayed out from the horizon as the last minutes of the Golden Hour ticked away to the soft caress of music from cleverly hidden speakers.

Ropes of lights hung artfully in arches and coils around trees nearly as old as the estate itself while liveried footmen stood guard at doors, ready to open them for the Duke's guests. “My congratulations to your staff, your grace, it's enchanting,” Constance complimented him, causing his chest to puff out just a bit.

“Take care of your team and your team takes care of you,” he quoted with a wink. “A sentiment I can see you apply yourself, my Lady.”

Constance arched an eyebrow at him. “I should scold you for your constant military aspirations, your grace and remind you to be grateful for the blessings the Emperor has bestowed on you, but I find I cannot muster the energy to be stern this evening. So I'll accept your compliment as it was intended, one leader to another.” His boyish smile gleamed through and he patted her gloved hand.

“I will always be grateful for the mercy of his Majesty and his Daughters,” he replied. “As touching my lady's energy level, I like to think I have a buffet laid out such that there will be something of service. I'm hoping for at least one dance from the most beautiful of my guests.”

De La Concordia knew an experienced tom cat at work when she heard it, but allowed herself to remember some of her most pleasant evenings had been the artistry of experienced tom cats and smiled back at him. “Only a single dance, your grace? Should I be jealous?”

He looked at her sidelong, as though a marksman gauging the arc of his last shot to see how close to his mark he'd come. “My dear Palatine, if allowed I would happily monopolize your dance card!” he shot back.

Not for the first time that evening, Constance indulged in her light, crystalline laugh. “You grace is a shameless flatterer, don't stop on my account!”

“The night is young,” he assured her. “And I have not yet begun to flatter!”

*** * ***

Ruth's elbow let her into the critical care recovery ward of the _Vigilant_ , as both of her hands were full with a pair of steaming cups of coffee. The smell brought June's face up from the screen she'd been monitoring and a weary smile brightened her face. “Emperor bless you, sister!” she exclaimed as she took the mug Ruth offered and relished her first sip.

Whitworth hitched a cheek on an open spot of the desk that wouldn't upset anything or accidentally touch a control. “Legatine Vander gave me authorization to disable to flight recorder in here, so we can speak freely,” she said, taking a sip from her own mug and looking over at the Recovery Gel tank. “How is she?”

“Asleep,” Camanelli replied, turning the chair to be able to follow her guest's gaze. “And I _never_ thought I'd see her up and walking again.” She looked up at the other sister a bit guardedly. “You didn't go with the others to that ball or whatever?”

Ruth sighed and shook her head. “No, I'm _his_ teacher,” she muttered in disgust. “I can't _believe_ the Palatine would allow this!”

The Sister Hospitalier chuckled darkly and shook her head, relaxing now that she did not have to be on guard of betraying a confidence. “I don't think any of us had a choice. If Rachael were here, she'd probably laugh.”

That brought Ruth's eyes back to her. “Did you know her?”

“Not really,” June allowed. “Just in passing, and most of what I heard was from her squad mates. They invited me to her wake, after she'd been declared brain dead and I heard some stories. She wasn't like the Reverend Mother at all, or so I heard.”

“Reverend Mother?” Ruth asked.

That surprised the Nurse and her expression was incredulous. “The Legatine didn't tell you? That's the body of Rachael Winter, Reverend Mother Winter's daughter!”

Whitworth nearly dropped her mug. “By the Golden Throne!” she swore. “She actually...?”

Campanelli became stern. “Yes, she did, so you make _certain_ who she is now lives up to that sacrifice!” Ruth nodded and turned back to the young woman floated in the tanks, moving gently either from a dream or the currents in the gel.

“I can't imagine what that might be like,” Whitworth muttered in amazement. “Either! To give up the body of your own child in the Emperor's service, or to wake up in someone else's body.”

The Nurse chuckled darkly. “As the ship's surgeon said, as he did it, it's not that much different than making a servo-skull.” She sighed and took another sip of her coffee. “We all serve the Emperor, but some more than others.”

Ruth's gaze returned to the Nurse and caught her eye. “How long until you can decant her?”

“I'll give her another hour or so.” Whitworth stood and finished her coffee.

“Alright, I'll see you in an hour.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime.”

*** * ***

Mary Cotton had lived a hard life.

An orphan, she had been raised in the _Scholas Progenium_ of Manzipor, part orphanage, part boarding school, part military boot camp under Drill Abbots and Abbesses who had no patience for dullards or the slothful. Mary had been given holos of her parents, a communications officer aboard the _Deliverance_ who had been lost with all other hands when the ship was destroyed, and a Captain of the 27th Manzipor Winged Hussars who had died a heroes death on Caliban.

This was all Mary knew of the humans who had been her parents.

She had been a particularly devout child and her frequent prayers for the souls of the faces of the people she had been told were her parents drew the attention of Palatine Aisha, a retired Sister of Battle who was living out her final days teaching the next generation of the Emperor's loyal subjects. Seeing in Mary the potential of a new sister, she had ridden the child heartlessly, honing in her both the raging temper at her teacher's callous and capricious nature as well as the indomitable will to keep it in control and herself out of trouble.

Hunger had been a constant companion of Mary's until she had finally proven herself to Aisha, and the Sister Qualifier Aisha had summoned to give her the final trial to see if Mary had what it took to be a Sister of Battle. She had been ten solar years old when she'd arrived at the Convent Sanctorum on Ophelia VII and discovered for the first time what a full belly felt like. Her instructors at the Convent had been hard, harsh at times, but fair and Mary had blossomed as a Novice quickly achieving high marks, both in her religious education and her martial one.

There had actually been some debate about which Order she should be trained for and had been given a rare choice to decide for herself where the Emperor called her. Mary had remembered the faces of her unknown parents, both soldiers in the service of the Emperor and had not hesitated to choose to join the Ordo Militant and a combat MOS to become a full Sister of Battle.

In all her schooling, or the battlefield she had walked, never in her life had she seen anything like the inside of Dachaigh. The magnificent decorations, the beautiful clothes and the tables laden with food, the likes of which she'd never seen. “This must be what Heaven is like,” she whispered to Sister Superior Marks after they had made their way down the reception line, meeting people she would be hard pressed to remember later, but mindful of her protocol in the mean time.

Wendy chuckled at her sister's amazement and led the way over to one of the tables of food. “You'll want to be careful when you eat something,” she intimated, taking up a small plate and adding a portion of mixed fruits, most of which she couldn't identify. “Be mindful of your uniform and don't eat yourself sick.”

“I'm not _that_ hungry,” Mary retorted as she took some of the fruit herself and looked, somewhat askance at the tiny fork she'd been given to eat them with. “You even know what this stuff is, 'Supe?”

“No clue,” Wendy replied carefully around her own mouthful. “Tasty though.”

Mary speared what she decided to call a strawberry, because it vaguely resembled what she'd imagined a strawberry would look like when she'd read about them. Her mouth was flooded with a sweet, tart flavor as she chewed and couldn't help but mew at how wonderful it tasted. “I think we hit the jackpot, Wendy,” she declared, quietly. “How about you?”

“This certainly beats being shot at,” Wendy agreed, snagging another flute of champagne from a passing waiter and taking a sip. “Praise the Emperor, I could get used to this!”

From a balcony above the main floor of the ballroom, music began to play, drawing both of their eyes up, to behold something neither had seen before; an orchestra, populated by live musicians playing musical instruments. Then, there was a magical moment as room began to be put to it's nominal use and couples began to dance. Mary caught sight of the Palatine and the Duke, out on the floor turning slowly on the floor, large smiles on both their faces. “I didn't think the Palatine was gonna let her hair down,” Mary declared in disbelief, elbowing her friend and superior officer and discretely pointing out their commanding officer on the dance floor.

Wendy caught sight of a pair of officers in what looked like Home Guard uniforms and turned back to Mary. “We going to let the Palatine have all the fun?”

“Emperor, no!” Mary asserted as the two men who were a bit startled by their approach and bowed. “You boys dance?” she asked, picking the bigger of the two. A surprised grin spread on his face and he bowed again.

“It would be our pleasure, my lady,” he replied.

“I'm Bob, this is Doug,” his friend declared.

“I'm Wendy and this is Mary,” the Sister Superior declared. “Let's dance!” Hands were grabbed and bodies led out onto the floor, and no one was really sure who was leading and who was being led, not that anyone cared. Then Mary had a tall, good looking young man's arms around her and she was dancing in a ballroom in what might as well have been a castle and the five year old girl inside her was beside herself in glee.

* * *

Fiona sipped champagne and smiled to herself as she watched her protege dancing with their charge and tried not to worry about what had brought them here. Every where she looked, she saw loyalty, an idyllic, textbook example of a world fully secure within the Imperium of Man. There was not so much as a hint of heresy, disloyalty or treachery. It seemed obvious they had been sent on a wild goose chase; whatever a goose was, or why one would chase it she had no idea. It was then she sighed and decided to look at things through more experienced eyes.

Surely they should have found _something_ irregular by now, shouldn't they?

Her mood somewhat soured, she turned and made a soft gesture. At her bidding Baldermort floated over and dipped on his suspensor field. “How may I be of service, my lady?”

“Baldermort, when was the last time there was any kind of issue on this planet? Any hints of chaos, heresy, anything?” The skull's lack of skin or muscles prohibited it from making any kind of facial expression, but just from the way it fidgeted on its suspensor field made her think it was taken aback.

After a long moment, the vox in the skull quietly replied, “Fifty years ago, my lady, there was a minor incident, a religious benevolent society was declared to be heretical, but the members surrendered themselves. The adjudication of the Adeptus Arbites and the Ecclesiarchy was that the incident was a misunderstanding of certain notes of the Imperial Creed. It was judged an innocent confusion of dogma, not willful heresy.”

“What was the outcome of this leniency?”

“The accused renounced their misunderstanding and pledged themselves loyal. As they had cooperated fully with the Inquisition, they were allowed the Emperor's Mercy,” the skull intoned somberly. Fiona pulled at her chin in thought.

“Was anyone important caught up in this 'misunderstanding'?”

“I was,” a deep, melodious voice declared. Fiona turned to find an older man, wearing not quite a uniform, though it had medals and braid aplenty, standing behind her. He had a full head of gray hair and a stern, weathered face. He clicked his heels together and bowed stiffly. “Leopold Gustav Holtz, Viscount of New Macon, your humble servant, my lady.” He stood up straight, taking the bottle of champagne from one of the tables chill buckets and refreshing Fiona's glass, then his own before returning it.

“Legatine Fiona Vander, _Adepta Sororitas_ ,” she replied, with the lightest of curtseys in response to his own courtesy.

He conspicuously took a sip first from his flute and looked the Sister in the eye. “My sister, Emperor rest her soul, was disgraced in the affair. She had been particularly adamant her societies beliefs were not heresy.”

“Her society?” asked Vander archly, taking a sip of the sparkling wine herself. Either to merely enjoy it, or show she was not intimidated, she wasn't quite sure. The Viscount gestured at Baldermort.

“The servator can tell you, it's a matter of public record, and I have nothing to hide over it. She considered the Society as a labor of love and was too ardent in its defense. When chastised by the Ecclesiarchy for it she was...surly, some would say with good cause, but I will not debate that. She was stripped of her title and cast out of the family. She left Thuria and the last word of her I had was that she was dead.”

Fiona switched the flute to her left hand and looked at the nobleman sidelong. “Bold words, my lord. Especially in defense of Heresy to the face of a Sister of Battle.” The man chuckled darkly.

“You misunderstand, my lady,” he replied. “I offer no defense on behalf of my sister, her society or how she chose to defend it. I may reprove the Ecclesiarchy on its handling of the matter, but that judgement was handed down decades ago and the dead are buried. I trust my actions then and since vouchsafe my loyalty to our Emperor.” He stepped forward and Fiona continued to meet his gaze without giving up so much as a millimeter. “I cast my own sister out of my family, Legatine, to prove my loyalty. Can you say you would have done the same?”

“This is a perfect world so far, My Lord Viscount,” she told him evenly. “I have survived too many battles to be lulled into a false sense of security. If there is heresy or corruption on this planet, rest assured, we _will_ find it.” She took a sip of champagne while staring him in the eye. “And if there is only loyalty, the Emperor's subjects have nothing to fear from us.”

He smiled thinly and bowed his head. “Your reputation on that account precedes you, my lady.” He turned, using that to step back slightly so as to lower the hostility between them without giving ground. “It seems we are both concerned over the younger generation,” he declared, looking out at the Duke and Palatine enjoying their waltz. “Perhaps we can find common cause...?”

“In what?” she drawled.

His eyes lingered on the dancing forms, then turned to look at her sidelong. “Perhaps,” he repeated, then bowed again. “Good evening, my lady Vander. I look forward to our next conversation.”

Fiona returned his bow, then watched him depart, her mind going in circles as she did so. Finally, without taking her eyes off the departing back of the Viscount, over her shoulder she called, “Baldermort?”

“The complete file of the Viscount, my lady?”

“Every little detail,” Fiona replied.

“Of course.”

* * *


	10. Band of Sisters Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long awaited party...

**Chapter Ten**

** Fading Dreams **

The entire vehicle shook as bolter rounds slammed into it's back quarter pushing it sideways. The Rhino, a squat, rhomboid shaped box on a pair tracks skidded in the mud, pushed sideways off what was passing as a road and into the ditch beside it. In the driver's compartment alarms began to blare and the worst light on the warning panel lit up: Track Failure. Rachael swore her choicest invectives as one hand slapped the rapid release of her harness and the other was reaching for her helmet. “Out! Out!” she shouted, the armor was holding, but probably not for much longer. “Starboard side!” The starboard hatch fell open and ten Battle Sisters flowed out like a river of black armored death.

Helmet in hand, Rachael grabbed the remote, swinging the storm bolter on its pintle mount on the roof of the disabled armored transport in the direction of fire her Rhino was taking. The Thermal Imager showed a traitor Marine in damaged power armor who had picked up an emplacement bolter and was using it as a personal weapon. His helmet was off and the Marine's eyes were wide and wild with Chaos madness. That gave her an opening that might save them all. “I've got something for you, traitor!” she growled. Rachael saw her target and held down the remote's trigger. The bolter on the roof roared, hammering the traitor Space Marine with explosive rounds that knocked him off balance, as they were unable to penetrate his armor. He threw up an arm to protect his defenseless head, which meant he had to stop shooting. Grinning, Rachael yanked the remote until she worked the stream down into a case of mortar rounds she'd seen.

The explosion blanked out the screen for several seconds and when the smoke and fire finally abated, most of the traitor's armor was still standing, but the traitor's head was missing. The gun fell out of his dead hands onto the sandbags of the position that the armor had shielded from the blast.

Problem solved.

The squad she'd been carrying had formed a ring around the stricken Rhino as Rachael clamored out, coming around to the far corner to assess the damage. The track had been severed, but only about two sections had been damaged. Fortunately, she had a spare bit of five track sections on the roof, but the drive sprocket was a mangled mess. This wasn't going to be repaired in the field. “Emperor's teeth!” she snarled. She pulled her helmet on and got the Vox thrower set to the right frequency. “Telestial, Telestial, this is  _Lucky Forward_ , I'm on foot and need a retrieval, how copy, over?”

“ _Lucky Forward_ , roger, we have your locator, retrieval priority is seven, what is the status of your passengers?”

Rachael carefully kept her language clean for the broadcast. “Squad and I are signal one, standing by.”

“ _Lucky Forward_ , negative stand by, proceed on mission to way point sigma. Discharged to squad Sister, how copy, over?”

“Orders received and understood,” she growled. “ _Lucky Forward_ clear.” With a sigh at her lack of luck, despite her Rhino's name, she tromped through muck of the battlefield to the Sister Superior of the squad she'd been hauling. “Joan, I'm on foot, they're going to wait until this sector is more pacified to do vehicle retrieval, so I've been attached to you. We're to proceed on your mission.”

The white faced visor of Joan's Sabbat Pattern helmet swung up, revealing her grinning face. “Glad to have you, Driver! Nice shooting with that remote.”

“Thanks,” she laughed. “If any of your girls have a storm, there's rounds left over in the box.” 

Joan nodded and called over her shoulder. “Tamura! Clean out that ammo box on the Rhino! We're walking from here, ladies.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Tamura replied as she dropped the heavy bolter she was carrying on its sling to free her hands so she could scramble up the Rhino and pull out the bolter ammo on its belt. “Should I disable this gun, 'Supe?” she called and Rachael shook her head.

“Don't break my gun!” she yelled, but the Sister Superior put a hand on Rachael's shoulder.

“I can't leave operational ordinance behind us,” she apologized. Turning up to her trooper, she ordered, “Pull the firing pins and give them to the Driver.” Rachael nodded her understanding and got her bolter and magazine belt from the lock box on the side of the Rhino. 

The boxy, snub nosed battle rifle hanging from it's sling around her neck, she set about getting the belt comfortable as she fell in with the squad returning to the muddy road. The optics in her helmet told her Way Point Sigma was the better part of a kilometer down this mud track, through the ruins of a little hamlet that would likely have looked quaint and charming on a post card before this last week.

Last week the 78th Manzipor Cannoniers, having reduced the capital of  Goshen IV to twenty square kilometers of rubble and blasted buildings, where now spreading their attention out into the country side. A twenty minute bombardment had turned an idyllic, rural landscape to a mud and crater hell of blasted trees, burned grass and irregularly shaped piles of stone and burned rubble that had once been homes, businesses and places of life.

Which underscored  _exactly_ how tough Space Marines, even traitor Space Marines were and Rachael desperately prayed the one responsible for putting them on foot was the sole survivor.

It was a long, grueling slog through the muck and bits of dead farm animals, every head on a swivel, every heart beating, wondering when the next enemy would make himself known by trying to kill them. The sister in front of Rachael raised her fist, dropping silently to one knee, which Rachael aped, passing the halt order down the line. Rachael got her bolter in her hands, made sure it was charged and swept her eyes over the side of the road that was her section to watch.

“Heads up,” whispered Joan's voice in the speaker in her helmet, “multiple heat sources in the town ahead.” 

Rachael kicked herself for not already having her helmet's lenses set to thermal and did so, just in time to see five man shaped thermal images in the process of charging another emplacement bolter on a wheeled carriage. “Contact right!” she screamed. “Heavy weapon!” She was able to throw herself onto her stomach just as the bolter opened up and the one in five tracers began to zip over head, snapping and whistling as they broke the sound barrier. Rachael got her own bolter up and burped it three times, raking her fire over the gun, watching the thermal images fly apart, in clouds of cooling blood as her rounds found their marks.

The Gates of Hell swung wide and opened onto the little road as the bright red beams of lasrifles flashed over head and the staccato snaps of bolter rounds trying to find flesh flew by. The sound filters on the helmet kept the din from deafening the women as they frantically worked to defend themselves, while the local vox kept each in contact with the others. “You need to change your armor, Driver?” laughed Tamura as she stood in the hail of death, bathed in laser fire that was washing off the ceremite of her armor, as she got the storm bolter pointed in the right direction and it's motor up to speed.

“Die, Heretics!” she snarled as the bolter opened up, hosing the weapon left and right into the ruins in front of them. The other girls in the squad laughed with her until Tamura's rounds found something volatile and a massive explosion flashed up, flattening the remains of the building.

* * *

Jonas snapped awake, startled by the vividness of the dream and panting into the mask as her heart thundered in her chest. Her eyes stung for a moment as the recovery gel bathed them as until her eyes became used to something physically against them again. Outside the tank, through the glass, she could vaguely see the room, distorted by both the gel and the glass. She saw June stand and walk over to the tank where she could see her better. “Bad dream?” June asked and Jonas heard her through the vox built into the straps of the mask on his face.

“Out!” she shouted, her voice muffled by the mask. “I want out!”

The Sister Hospitalier's voice became stern. “You can't come out yet, so stop thrashing! If you pull that mask off your face you'll drown before I can get the tank drained, so  _calm down_ !” Jonas shook all over and grabbed herself, trying to fight the overwhelming sense of panic.

That made her aware she had breasts. “I...I can't...! I can't breathe! Let me out!”

June turned back to the desk and her lips moved, but no sound came from the speaker, the microphone must be off. Jonas felt a little jolt, like a small electric shock, then a second one and her entire body spasmed in the most incredible orgasm of her life. It raced up and down her nervous system while her stomach and thighs trembled and spasmed. Unable to keep silent, she moaned into the mask and her hands banged into the glass of the tank as she tried to open herself completely to these incredible sensations. “If you couldn't breathe,” June's voice whispered in her ear. “You couldn't complain about not being able to breathe.”

“What...what was that?” she stammered in a fog, trying to force her jaw to work through the magnificent afterglow. Her body had been dipped in liquid pleasure and her mouth was trying desperately to lick her fingers.

The Sister's face was smug. “Just a little jolt directly to the pleasure center of your brain. I thought that would help you calm down.”

“It...was...amazing...” she whispered. “Can...can I...again...?”

“No,” the Hospitalier declared. “Want to feel it again? Find a lover, not a doctor. Now, I need you to stay in there for another twenty minutes. Can you do that?” Jonas sighed and nodded. “Good. What did you dream?”

“I...I was driving a truck, or something. I think maybe it was a Rhino. And it was disabled and I had to go with my passengers and we were ambushed.” She laughed a hallow laugh. “It was quite a fantasy, I even killed a traitor Space Marine.”

Something whispered in June's memory. “Where was this?” she asked quietly.

“Goshen IV,” Jonas replied. “Just a dream, why?” She watched the sister walk back over to the desk and begin to work the Cogitator.

June's voice was determined as she worked. “Have you ever been to Goshen IV?”

The pause in Rachael's voice was just long enough to notice. “Yes...I was...part of the Inquisition Team there, beyond that I can't say.” June rolled her eyes.

“I don't care about your secrets, did you see combat?”

“Of course not!” she growled. “I was...well, I was in the rear area, and then mostly back on the _Emperor's Fist_.” The Hospitalier worked a control and an image appeared in the glass. It was a bit hard to make out through the gel, but it was a picture of the dead traitor Marine and Jonas could see a lovely young woman in Sororitas power armor standing before the headless corpse. She was grinning, looking through the flexed bicep of her right arm in the universal symbol of powerful women. She had dimples and heart shaped face under a mop of milk white hair that was mused from wearing the helmet and shining blue eyes.

There was something familiar about the face, but Jonas couldn't place it.

“That's the traitor Marine from my dream!” she exclaimed. “I shot him with the bolter on the Rhino and set off...”

“A box of mortars,” June finished as she walked back over. “That Sister in the picture is _you_. That is Sister whose body you are wearing. I heard this story from Sister Superior Joan Lang, who was there and took this picture.” June's eyes became steely. “I heard her tell the story at the wake of Rachael Winter.”

An icy cold stab of dread pierced Jonas' heart and any trace of that wonderful feeling from before was now long gone. “Winter?” she whispered. “Am...I...?”

“Yes,” June told her coldly. “She is your mother. And if you're learning this for the first time from me, you should be _ashamed_ of yourself!”

“What happened?!” she demanded, once more in the clutch of the panic from before. “How? Why?”

“I told you,” the Sister replied flatly. “You fell off your Rhino and hit your head on the way down. And the day the Reverend Mother was to say good bye to her daughter, to see her buried with honor in the Garden of the Fallen, she came to me and had me remove her brain and bury it in secret, then pack her body up and bring her here, so _this_ could be done. For you.” There was no invective in the sister's voice, no accusation or demand of guilt, for she had no need of any. The truth of the words themselves did all the accusation for her.

The fear left Jonas, pushed out by a much stronger emotion. Because June Campanelli was right, Jonas Merle  _was_ ashamed of herself. 

* * *

The balcony of Dachaigh held a magnificent view of the valley and over head, the stars shone in the moon light. Constance wasn't cold, despite the chill in the air, but the Duke had insisted on removing his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. The mugs of coffee he provided were delicious and warming against the slightly cool air as she followed his arm to the building he was pointing at. “Just there, at the top of the hill, you can see it. That's the Montrose Estate and most of the land around the hill to the river over there belong to it.”

“Your grace is very generous,” Constance assured him. “Hard to see in this light, but it looks like it will be ideal.”

He smiled at her, pausing his mug as he was about to take a sip. “My lady, we are alone and there is no one listening to scandalize. Please, feel free to call me Cameron.” The Sister of Battle arched an eyebrow at him and took a sip of her own coffee to give her time to decide how she would respond.

“Don't think I don't see what you're doing, _Cameron_ ,” she decided.

A grin hung itself on his face. “What, my lady Constance, am I doing?”

She smirked and turned back to the view of what would be her new home, noting not the least of which that it doubtlessly lay in view of the Duke's bedroom. “You are playing with fire,” she replied. “I was born at night, your grace, but it was  _ not _ last night. I can see your lust as plain as when you kissed the back of my armored hand. What kind of a man flirts with his potential executioner?”

He leaned against the stone railing to better admire her side long. “An innocent one, who has nothing to fear from a fellow loyal survant of our Emperor. If my advances are unwelcome, please, accept my unconditional and abject apology for them. Command me, and I will cease, even though I am a mere man, overwhelmed by the beauty before me to forget myself.”

“Oh, you _are_ good,” she complimented.

He dipped his head in what he actually managed to make appear humble. “I am inspired by an angelic muse of singular perfection.” He took a sip and his smile returned. “And, despite my reputation, I am capable of controlling myself and you have my word; no matter what does, or does not pass between us, I will not allow anything to jepardize the relationship of the Duke of Thuria and his Sister Famula.”

She sighed, and reached out to pat his cheek. “I'll have you know, that were I a lowly Celestian, and you some Home Guard captain I would throw you on whatever bed or couch was handy and command you to your duty to the Emperor.”

His grin spread from ear to ear as he reached up to take her hand and kiss it. “Were I some humble Home Guard captain, your slightest wish would be my instant command.”

“But we are not those people,” she said sadly. “I am a mission commander, charged with sheparding this house to the greater glory of the Emperor.”

“That's not a command for me to cease persuing you, Constance De La Concorida,” he observed. She gently freed her hand from his grip and wagged a finger at him in rebuke.

“You are _maddening_ , Cameron Wren!” she told him. “What good does it do you to persue me? Am I the final trophy notch on your bedpost? The ultimate conquest? Do have any idea how many different ways I could kill you with _just_ my bare hands?”

“More than I care to contemplate,” he said softly, “I'm sure.” Deciding to change tactics, he sat down his mug to the side, then laid both of his hands on the stone rail behind him and half sat on it. “Though I note my lady is capable of being remarkably direct, she chooses not to be. Do not misunderstand my persuit, you are not a prize for my collection, which even I have the humility to be embarrassed over. I was young, not that I offer that as an excuse or indulgence for my lotharios. It is simple explination. Young men are foolish, and do foolish things.”

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” she warned him.

To her slight surprise, he nodded in agreement. “You are exactly right. Now how can I, with my reputation, plead a lovesuit to a lady of quality and decernment? A heroine of our empire, a pious warrior of the church, a creature of singular wit and awe inspiring beauty.” Constance's smirk returned.

“You're over selling it again.” 

“A woman of your quality deserves to be over sold,” he replied. “Not that I am up to the challenge, though I will try with gleeful abandon.”

“What are you telling me?” she demanded, looking at him askance. “That you desire what? Some kind of lenghty formal arrangement? You think to make me your mistress and have me preform my duties while being snickered at behind my back?”

“Any man who so much as looks ascance at my wife will find his life short, his death long and creative in its execution.”

Despite herself, Constance was so taken aback by his words she faultered a step backwards. “Are you proposing  _ marriage _ to me?” she demanded. “A woman you met scarcely a week previous who, I remind your grace, was pointing a gun at you!”

Now it was his turn to smirk. “As I recall, your pistol was on your thigh and your hands empty, save for your rosette.” Constance had taken all she could and, unable to contain herself, reached out and slapped him sharply across the mouth.

“What do you take me for, Cameron Wren?” she shouted at him. “Some moon struck little whore who will swoon at empty promises of marriage? Do you think I don't know _exactly_ what you're after?” His head snapped to the side from the force of her slap, but he didn't loose his balance and stood up off the rail to sternly return her gaze, then sank to one knee before her.

“Forgive me, my lady. On reflection, I realize how my sincerity could be misconstrued. I deserved far worse than that, and I am grateful for your mercy.” Constance found herself panting in her anger, before mastering her temper and reaching down to urge him to his feet.

“No, your grace, it is I who should apologize, that was an inexcusable breech of protocol.”

He took her hand as he stood, and kissed it again. “I deserved worse, even were I a lowly Home Guard Captain,” he told her with his wolfish smile only slightly diminished by the fading red mark on his cheek.

“Oh, you!” she declared, exasperated.

“Hear me, and understand,” he declared in a tone of command that was actually quite stirring. “I never, ever, meant to imply that I could be that much of a cad. And any man who calls you a whore in my hearing will be dead before the sun sets that day.”

She squared herself looked him dead in the eyes. “I have fought and served my Emperor for forty of my fifty years, I have sworn oaths and taken vows that cannot be cast aside, that place the needs of my order above my own life! Never mind my wishes, hopes, ambitions or idle fancy! I cannot even have a child without the say so of my Cannoness!”

“Constance,” he chided her, “listen...”

“No!” she snapped, in her passion flinging her mug to the stone pavement where it shattered. “You listen, and understand! If you are being honest with what you claim, know the entirety of what you seek! I will _never_ cease to be a Sister of Battle. I will never be released from my order, nor would I even seek to try! And though you were my loyal husband and patiently waited through deployments, and campaigns and crusades knowing I may not return, though you were the loving father of my children, if commanded I will put a gun to your head and shoot! Understand that, Cameron Wren! I will _never_ choose you over my order or my Emperor! NEVER! And if you fall to Chaos, I will kill you and I will not hesitate! Is that who you want for your wife?”

He reached up and took her hand in both of his. “I cannot begin to understand the depth of commitment like that,” he admitted softly. “I know that my ancestor came to this world with practically nothing but the grit and determination to tame it and make a home. All my life I have tried to live up to the blood in my veins. No, Constance, I don't understand it, but I can admire it. I can tell you unreservedly that if I fell to Chaos I would want you do just that. If I am lying, may the Emperor strike me dead! And if you will protect your children, by his grace,  _ our _ children with that devotion then I tell you I couldn't ask for a better woman for my wife.”

She reached up and took his hands in her last free one. “That kind of commitment demands  _ proof _ , Cameron. It's not to be had for a few sweet words under the stars. Show me!” She sighed and gently pulled her hands free. “Or return to being his grace, Cameron Wren, Duke of Thuria, my charge and mission.” He reached out and took her by the shoulders, his eyes on fire as he did.

“Challenge accepted!” he declared, pulling her to him. His kiss was as fierce and passionate as the promise of it had been.

* * *

From the shadows of the room that looked out onto the balcony, Henry Eddington lowered the hand he had raised to stay the ducal guards, drawn by the sound of angry shouts and broken pottery. He allowed himself a small smile seeing his master's passionate embrace of the Sister of Battle in both her own uniform and his coat, who was slowly returning his passion and taking a hold of him as well. Allowing himself to hope his young charge was finally growing up, he carefully schooled his expression to a neutral one before he turned to the guardsmen behind him and soothed small wrinkles and imagined lint from his tuxedo.

“I think it's alright, lads,” he assured them. “Nothing to see here.” He paused, then added, “Nothing to _have_ seen.”

“Yes, sir,” they replied softly and returned to their stations. Henry allowed himself a final glance, then withdrew himself, he had a party to over see for his master.

* * *

In the gardens below the balcony, a pair of faces watched the Sister of Battle and the Duke of Thuria locked in their passionate embrace, and turned to smile at each other. “Look at that!” whispered Jennifer, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight, her face enraptured and betrayed her as a hopeless romantic. “Good for the Palatine!” she declared as Gretchen took her hand up again and they continued their discrete dance away from the eyes of the ball room.

“I'm happy where I'm at,” Gretchen told her as they turned slowly to music that was drifting on the evening air. She stole a glance back up at the balcony, then flashed a grin at her lover. “To each their own, I guess!”

Jennifer arched an eyebrow. “You're saying you'd rather be with me than a rich, powerful Duke?” Gretchen laughed as she twirled her dance partner and decided to be bold and dipped her.

“Not my cup of tea,” Wycroff assured her. “Besides, I have a thing for blondes.” 

“Lucky me,” Jennifer giggled. “I have a thing for powerful women.” She laid her head on Gretchen's shoulder and for a timeless place they just danced and held each other in a beautiful garden, on a lovely planet and for a time, Hamilton imagined spending the rest of her life here. Imagined only shooting her weapon on the range every six months to renew her qualification with it, only having to fight boredom at parties or guard details, watching over a nobleman her commanding officer was banging.

Imagined never being in combat again.

“Gretch,” she whispered. “I can't thank you enough for being there for me.”

“I'll always be here for you, baby,” Wycroft breathed softly into her ear. “I'll protect you, and you'll protect me.”

Jennifer felt her eyes tearing up and tried to fight it so she wouldn't cry on her lover's uniform. “I don't get it,” she complained bitterly. “I trained so  _ hard _ for it, I drilled and practiced, so I'd be perfect! You saw me! You even said how proud you were about how much I was working on my movement drills! I shouldn't have...but, the smell, I could smell it and I don't know why!”

“Hush, dear heart,” Gretchen soothed her. “You can train for years, baby and think you have it completely down and when you see the elephant, it all goes out the window.” Jennifer flinched as her mind tortured her with the image of the bright orange flame leaping out of the Combo Gun she'd taken off the Palatine's armor while the Hospitalier worked to save her life. Remembered the unholy scream of the _thing_ that had possessed a meek looking little accountant, in the tattered remnants of a suit, his glasses melting off his burning face. 

“Why here?” she demanded. “Why? This place is nothing like Goshen IV!”

Wycroft gently kissed Jennifer's fore head. “Because you know it can happen here, don't you?” She hated doing it, but Jennifer nodded into Gretchen's shoulder and squeezed her tightly. “And if it comes,” Wycroft told her. “We'll be here, to protect them. To stop it.”

The accountant screamed as the demon abandoned the body it had possessed and was banished back to the warp. Jennifer squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to remember watching that poor man she'd just murdered thrash about on fire until the Hospitalier shot his head off with her bolter and the lifeless corpse collapsed at her feet to cook. “We couldn't stop Goshen IV.”

Gretchen stopped and gently raised her lover's face to look into her eyes. “No,” she admitted. “We weren't there, we couldn't prevent it. But we stopped it from spreading. And we're  _ here _ , aren't we? We can stop it here.”

“I...I don't want to have to kill again, Gretch, I'm sorry, I just...!” Hamilton's voice trailed off, hearing the vicious cursing of the Sister Hospitalier in her mind. Once more she felt the sting of her slap and her _harsh_ tones of command.

_ Emperor damn you!  _ the Sister Hospitalier had shouted _. I can't save her life  _ and  _ protect us! Do what you came here to do! Buck up, you sniveling little novice! Buck up and kill them! _

“I don't want to either, Jen,” she agreed. “We didn't take these vows because we _want_ to kill, did we? We took them because we knew we might have to.” She hugged her lover and kissed her gently. “You'll be ok, Jen. If it comes, I'll be right beside you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

* * *


	11. Band of Sisters Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party draws to a close.

**Chapter Eleven**

**To Sleep, Perchance To Dream**

Finally free of the recovery gel, June and a new Sister, a dark complected woman who identified herself as Eloheim Advance Ruth Whitworth, had allowed Jonas to stagger into a washroom connected to the ICU unit and take a shower. The gel was particularly stubborn in her hair and had to be washed three times to get it all out. For Jonas, this was something of a novelty. He wore his own hair extremely short on the 'advice,' which was actually more of a command, of his instructors. “The body is a distraction,” they'd repeated over and over like a litany. “A doorway to allow impurity access to your mind. Conquer your body and rule your mind!”

The Adepta Sororitas, on the other hand, seemed practically adamant they wear hair and a fair amount of it. What had likely started as yet another visual cue they were women, not men under arms, had become a practice, then a sacrament over the press of centuries. Indeed, the Sisters used being shaven headed as a brand of shame, enforcing it ruthlessly on their disgraced Sisters under going the Rite of Repentance. Rachael, Jonas discovered, had liked her hair full, all one length, and to her jawbone; which made getting the gel out of it something of a chore.

That accomplished, it was time to take stock of this body he had effectively stolen. The shower gave him a gauge of height and told him she had been taller than he had been, probably about a hundred and eighty nine centimeters to his one seventy. She was somewhere around sixty kilos, but very little of it was fat, and all of that seemed to be concentrated on her chest. Rachael was busty and the weight tugging on her chest felt odd, but then _everything_ about her body felt odd. Her hips were too wide which forced his gait to change into an odd rhythm that his body seemed to like but felt utterly alien to him.

This was heightened by the seemingly constant reminder of the void between his legs.

It was remarkable that something he had spent his life ignoring, first at the demand of the Drill Abbess and Abbot at the _Scholas Progenium_ he had grown up in, then his instructors in the Inquisition, was now so prominent in his mind. It had been something he'd spent his entire life suppressing. Like so many children of the Imperium of man, Jonas Merle was an orphan and had grown up under the stern eyes of the Ecclesiarchy. Once he had been caught playing with himself and this had so enraged the abbot that he had deliberately broken Jonas' pinkie finger to punish him. From then on, he had done his best to ignore his genitals. Now their being missing brought an ironic constant awareness of the lack of something he'd spent his life ignoring.

The irony was made worse in that he was forced to actually handle her...opening...to be sure it was clean of the gel, then a careless finger had found a bright star of sensation. Jonas bit her lip, remembering the incredible pleasure June had calmed him with, assured himself that it was strictly for personal hygiene and began to explore. Other than a few particularly vague classes in _Scholas_ , Jonas, being a virgin, had no first hand experience with the anatomy of the human female. Her explorations were clumsy and it took her a while to find the right mix of pressure, speed and rhythm, but when she did she got another taste of the white hot pleasure she had been sedated with. Her stomach and thighs spasmed gently and she felt a desperate need for the void to be filled with something, _anything,_ that spoiled things slightly.

Still, panting after her breath, she came down from the high, euphoric and, oddly, content. As though the feelings had helped her internalize that this was now her body. There was a wash of guilt and she looked around to be sure no one had seen her, and that dealt with, she finished her shower and realized she had a great deal to consider.

Clean, she went to a sink and wiped the steam off the glass to get a look at her new face. Rachael Winter's heart shaped face looked back at him, wet hair hanging about her head in a wild pattern from the shower. Her blue eyes were remarkably bright and her eyebrows were chestnut, which was likely her natural hair color. The white locks had a good five centimeters of dark hair the same color before they turned white and the hair hung below her jaw about the same about. Probably the length of growth from her accident to now. “This is my face,” Jonas told herself in Rachael's voice, taking in every little detail.

It was nothing like the pinched, ugly face of Jonas' real body. It was an open face, with cheeks that were rounded from smiling as that seemed to be her natural state. The face of a woman who was happy to be friends with anyone and couldn't be bothered to give a shit if someone didn't like her. He reached up raising the wet hair and saw a trace of a scar that disappeared into her hair line. She stared in awe at the line, realizing at last what had happened to her.

She shuddered, fighting down the revulsion, and tried to lose herself in simple maintenance. Jonas brushed her teeth, finally able to get the horrible taste out of her mouth and then wrapped the towel around herself, as she had no clothes, to go back out into the room she had woken up in with the now empty tank and gurney where Ruth and June were waiting on her. “I need some clothes,” she started, but Ruth shook her head.

“You won't don a single stitch of our clothing until you take the novice oath.”

Jonas rolled her eyes. “Fine, what is it?” Ruth said nothing, but almost casually reached out and slapped her. The blow staggered her, but Rachael was stronger than Jonas had been and kept her feet. “What was that for?” she shouted, but then the sister had her by the throat. For a split second, Jonas considered resisting, but wisely remembered he was facing a combat proven Sister of Battle and realized she was no match for Ruth Whitworth. “I'm...I'm sorry!”

Ruth's dark eyes flashed out of her dusky skin, but she got her temper under control quickly. “Do not _ever_ take that tone with me again,” she declared firmly. “Or even _think_ to disparage our traditions.”

“I'm sorry,” she repeated, meaning it a good bit more this time. For a long moment, Ruth said nothing, then reached down and snatched the towel away from her. Being nude, in the large room, made her somewhat afraid and very uncomfortable. “Please, I...”

“Be silent,” Ruth commanded, then, finally, took her hand off Jonas' neck. “You enter our Order as you entered life, naked and helpless. On your knees.”

Jonas almost asked for something to cushion her knees with, but realized in time that would be a mistake, and was able to remain silent. She looked over at June, but it was obvious the Sister Hospitalier had no interest in helping her, so she sank down on to the cold, hard deck plate and looked up at Ruth. The Sister who was removing a small book from a pocket under the Day Habit she was wearing and held it up. “This, is the _Way of Tears,_ it is the fundamental work of the _Adepta Sororitas_ . You will go no where outside your private chambers without it. This is the map of the road of your life from this point forward until your death. You may be sent to other Orders, you may be transferred to other _Adepta,_ but you will never stop being a Sister of Battle. Do you under stand this?”

“I do,” she whispered.

“Do you accept this burden freely, without reservation or evasion, that the Emperor himself hold you to account?”

For a long moment, Jonas considered what she was about to say, then finally understood why the sisters were so particular in their ways. She felt the shame of the body she wore, and what had been given up for her. Looking up into Ruth's face, she determined she would honor the promise she had made to Reverend Mother Winter. She swore to be the best Sister of Battle she could be. “I do.”

Ruth noted the long pause before her answer and her tone changed a bit. “Do you swear to offer yourself as a living sacrifice, offered to the Emperor as he shall will, that you be used in his service?”

“I do.” For a long moment, Ruth said nothing, then, finally opened the book to its first page and presented it to her.

“Swear the oath, novice.”

With a trembling hand, Jonas reached up and took the book from her. She looked down at the passage, framed around the page in art of particular reverence. Carefully, she read the oath, giving it the attention it doubtlessly deserved and, once sure she would not stumble over it, licked her lips and began. “Pain is the sister who fights at my side. Pain recalls to me my wrongs that I might strive in pursuit of penance. Pain insists that I stand my ground, steady my aim and fight on; though my life blood falls like rain to the thirsting soil. Pain is an ally. Pain is a friend. Pain is truth. I will walk all my life in this truth, with pain at my side, in service of the Emperor of Mankind. As the Emperor's Own Woman, So Help Me.”

Ruth drew back her left hand and slapped her sharply across the face with the back of her hand. “That is your oath,” she declared solumnly. “So you shall remember that which you have sworn, with pain you enter the _Adepta Sororitas._ Rise, novice, and seek your place amongst your sisters.” Jonas rose shakily to her feet and resisted the urge to rub her cheek where Ruth had slapped her. Ruth's gaze was stern. “Normally, ten years would pass from this moment to you being presented to a mission as a Sister. I do not have ten years, I do not have ten hours until your squad mates return from the planet, so it falls upon you to be the most dilligent student in the history of mankind. Read, learn and comprehend _quickly!_ Your 'illness' will cover only so much for so long.”

“Yes, sister, I will.” Ruth glared at her for a moment, then continued.

“What is your name?”

“Rachael Winter.”

“Who is Jonas Merle?”

“I don't know anyone named Jonas Merle.” Ruth's gaze was fierce as she studied Rachael's face, then finally nodded slowly in satisfaction. She made a gesture to a neatly folded stack of clothing on the bed.

“This is a Day Service Habit. If you are not in your armor, and another uniform has not been mandated, this is what you will wear. It matches the one I am wearing.” She pointed to the patch on the sleeve of the red gown of a white maltese cross with a red heart embossed over it. “This is the symbol of the Order of the Valorous Heart. It is worn on my right shoulder because I saw combat with that Order. Yours is like wise as you were a member of the Order of the Valorous Heart. Your left shoulder is bare because we are a new unit and have yet to recieve our healdry. The _Way of Tears_ , will explain these symbols to you. I expect you to have them memorized and understand the symbology of this uniform the next time I see you.”

“Yes, Sister.”

Ruth raised her hand, but didn't strike as Rachael flinched and cowed before her. She flexed her rigid hand to point at her. “My rank is Eloheim Advance. You have not earned the right to address me as sister.”

“Yes, Eloheim Advance. I'm sorry, I am trying!” Ruth sighed and her scowl softened just a bit.

“I... _can_ ...respect you're willing to go to this extreme for your duty, Rachael. I detest the manner you have choosen to do so, but this dedication you possess will help you through what will be the shortest, and most rapid indoctrination in this order that I am aware of.” She sighed and stepped back. “Get dressed. We have some time before lights out that I will instruct you with.” Rachael nodded, and stepped over to the table on the far side of the ICU room where June was sitting, watching. As the young non-commissioned officer walked over, she took the carafe of coffee off the warmer and poured her a cup.

“Thanks,” Ruth declared as she sat down on the bench opposite the healer and took a welcome sip. They watched the novice woman self consciously try to begin to dress under their gaze for a moment. It was quickly appearant she had no idea what she was doing.

Finally June turned to ask softly so her voice wouldn't carry, “She seems to be genuinely trying.” Ruth shrugged her indifference.

“I don't care,” she growled. “She knew this would be hard, and she chose to be short with me, if she keeps showing me attitude, she'll find out how hard I can ride somebody.”

June's eyebrow arched. “Sister Winter, come here,” she commanded. The new woman came over, the bra she was fighting with in her hands, but her groin was covered.

“Yes, ma'am?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Did you know what would happen to you?” the Hospitalier asked. “That you would be...using...the body of Reverend Mother Winter's daughter?”

Rachael became distraught, trying and failing to hide her emotions. “NO!” she protested. “I thought they were just going to, I don't know, implant breasts or, something! I _never_ thought...” June stood and took the bra from her hands and wrapped it around her torso with the clasp in the front.

“Do it this way, then spin it around, until you get used to it,” she told her, giving Ruth a significant glance.

“Thank you, sister June.”

“You're a fool,” the Hospitalier replied. “Did you think even castrated and emasculated we'd let you in our order?”

“I have to do my duty to the Emperor!” she declared, vehemently, while getting the straps around her shoulders and her breasts into the cups. “I know you don't believe me, no one does, but that doesn't matter.”

“Cut her some slack,” June ordered the Eloheim, then turned back to Rachael. “And you, don't you dare slack off for a second. Come, I'll show you how to put the habit on.”

“Thank you, sister.”

* * *

It was well past midnight when Constance and her troopers bid farewell with the Duke to the last of his guests. That accomplished he smiled and bowed to the assembled mission. Before anyone could speak, he announced, “Ladies, if you will permit me the honor, my staff has prepared rooms for your to take your rest, and I will be delighted to have you remain as my guests until the morning.”

“Your Grace?” De La Concordia, started, but he just smiled and held up his hand to gently interrupt her concern.

“Fear not, my dear Palatine. You'll find everything you need, including a fresh change of clothing for the trip back to the _Vigilant_ in the morning. Please, allow me this small token of welcome to our new neighbors.” The dark haired Palatine looked at him askance for a moment, then finally nodded her acquiescence.

“Alright, your grace,” she replied. “My mission and I would be honored to accept your hospitality.”

His grin went from ear to ear. “Excellent! Right this way, ladies.”

Wendy leaned in close to Mary and whispered, “Now I regret saying goodnight to our dance partners!” Mary looked at the Sister Superior sidelong.

“Then you should _listen_ a bit and not talk so much, 'Supe!” She declared with a grin on her face. “Doug told me twenty five rooms had been done up special, on the Duke's say so, so I had the heads up this was coming.”

Wendy scowled at her. “Is this how you repay my generosity, Cotton? Rubbing my nose in your good fortune?” Mary, however, never stopped smiling.

“Why, 'Supe, would I do that to you? If you think so, be sure to ask Bob how he knew where your room was when you see him again.”

“I take it all back, Mary, you are a true friend in need!”

“You're welcome.” The rooms were as magnificent as the rest of the Duke's residence had been, and the women entered the rooms with delight at their various decor, until at last only Cameron and Constance were standing out side the room he was indicating for her. She led the way inside and held the door for him in invitation.

“I don't think anyone will scandalized if you care to come in for a moment or two,” she said with a sardonic smile. “I have yet to compliment you on this marvelous accommodation.”

He inclined his head in gratitude. “I did try to save the best for last,” he assured her, stepping in. Once the lights were up a bit he crossed the room to the far wall and drew back the curtains revealing a balcony. “The view is quite spectacular in the morning. I usually take my coffee here. If perhaps you'd join me in the morning, I'd welcome the company.”

“Your rooms share this balcony?” she asked, coming over to stand next to him.

“Mine are next door,” he told her with a wink. “Through that door, to be precise. This apartment is normally given to the Gentleman of the Bedchamber, as a sign of faith and trust.”

She glared at him side long. “Isn't that a wonderful coincidence?” she asked, eyebrow arched. He held his hands up in surrender.

“Come now, Constance, I have been rather plain, haven't I? And amusing innuendo aside, I meant what I said about things not changing between us, regardless.” She smiled and reached up to pat his cheek.

“You have been, my dear Duke, as was I earlier.” She sighed and shook her head. “I must confess, your pursuit caught me off guard. Oh, I've enjoyed the attentions of loyal gentlemen in my time, but truth be told, I've never really been in a relationship. I always considered myself married to my Order. If I thought to fulfill my duty to the Empire and bring a new subject into the world, I always assumed I would take a sedate posting for a decade or two. Then I'd find some willing Emperor's man and with the blessing of my Canoness-Preceptor have my child or children. I honestly hadn't even considered it important that they have the same father.”

He smiled and crossed his arms. “You and I are of a kind, I think, Constance. Or perhaps two sides of the same coin.”

She laughed and nodded. “I think you may be onto something, Cameron. And as we are alone, my closest friends call me Connie.”

His heels clicked together and he bowed. “I am deeply honored, Connie,” he declared, savoring her name in his mouth like a delicacy. As he had with each sister of her mission, pointed out the bell on the wall. “If you need anything, my servants will attend you, just press the call there. And I hope you like the clothing, as I depended on my staff for the fashion. I'm just glad your order does allow the possession of civilian clothing.”

“Do I want to know how you acquired all of our sizes?” she asked archly. “And I'm sure they're lovely.”

He smiled a sly smile. “It's good to be the Duke,” he told her with levity. “As I said, my rooms are just through there and if you need anything, don't hesitate to come to me, and I look forward to our morning coffee.”

She stepped forward and reached up, placing a hand on his chest. “Would I terribly confuse you if I asked you to stay?”

He blinked several times in obvious surprise. “I would certainly admit to confusion,” he admitted. “No disappointment, but certainly confusion.”

She smiled thinly. “Perhaps I am being selfish, but, it has been a long time, for me. I was, in fact, rather severely injured on Goshen IV and I spent two months on Banudan at the Convent of the Healing Heart to recover.” She sighed and looked him in the eye. “If I am taking advantage of you, say so,” she commanded, then the look of the commander faded and a somewhat melancholy woman stood before him. “I meant what I said earlier. Both in that you were rather exactly how I like my men, and that commitment like mine must be earned. I just...would very much like to feel another human being right now and remember why I took these vows.” She looked up and he found he didn't really know what beauty was until that moment. “I want to remember who I protect and why.”

“Dear lady,” he told her, taking her into his arms and gently pulling her against him. “I know of no greater honor that can be bestowed on a man. I am at your service, for whatever you need.”

She smiled and reached up to take his face in her hands and drew him into a kiss. As their lips parted, she whispered, “I was hoping you'd say that.”

* * *

Whatever had been stored in the town, there had been plenty of it. The explosion reduced ruined buildings to fiery muddy hole and the blast wave actually knocked Tamura on her back, much to the surprised amusement of the squad. There were a chorus of startled exclaimations over the vox thrower between them, until they regained their wits and firmly praised the Emperor for his generosity. “The Emperor Protects!” the squad declared, then helped each other to their feet. Rachael had several hands clap her on her shoulders and buttocks, welcoming her into their circle.

They had shed blood together as sisters.

“Winter,” Sister Superior Lang commanded, the visor on her helm swinging up to reveal her grinning face. “Nice work, girl. You can shoot with us anytime.” Rachael sheepishly accepted their accolades, despite herself feeling more than a little elated at the accomplishment. “Tamura, next time save some for the rest of us, eh?”

“Sorry, 'Supe! Got carried away!”

“Alright, ladies, lets get back to it. We still have a mission to do!” The squad fell back into their road march order as Rachael swapped the magazine in her bolter for a fresh one and dug into the pouch of loose rounds hanging off her belt to replenish the spent one as she walked. The mud on the road made the going tortureous, sometimes slick like oil and slippery, others like half dry cement, sticky and unwilling to give up their boots. It made the march anything except pleasant as they made their way across the battlefield.

There was a ruddy glow of fire on the horizon as what was left of the Capitol and the Chaos spawn within it were put to the torch. There was the distant echo of guns and explosions, but nothing close enough to worry about. For most of an hour it was just fight your way through the mud, keep an eye out for danger, and try to get to the way point hovering in front of you in the optics of the helmet.

Finally, they got to just below the crown of the ridge that would overlook the way point. The squad silently changed from the column to a line of battle, and crept up the ridge as quiet as Death itself, power armor or no. “Well,” whispered Joan's voice over their private line. “Won't this be fun?”

Rachael looked down the ridge through the optics of her helmet and felt her heart fall into her stomach. A make shift landing site had been set up that was being defended by what looked like an understrength company of Chaos possessed, but that was not the worst of it. There were several cargo containers set up like a supply dump containing who knew what and walking around behind the soldiers were three traitor Space Marines. Their armor were covered with blasphemous symbols, so they were not newly fallen, and crazed.

These had embraced their treason and heresy and were likely in complete control of themselves.

What was worse, all three were wearing their helmets which meant just setting off the supply dump wouldn't kill them. Unless there was something capable of exploding so powerful it would kill the sisters as well. Joan eased back down from the ridge as the sisters looked to her as they held their silent conversation over the vox thrower. “Lewis, Hunter, you two have the Meltas, it's on you two to crack those marines. The rest of us have to get you girls close enough to do it.”

“Or the marines close enough to us,” Tamura, replied. “We've got a pretty good position here, 'Supe. I can rake that line and probably take out most of the light infantry.”

“No good,” Hunter countered. “You blow Chaos possessed to pieces, you're just multiplying our problems. We've got to get down there and get them burning.”

“We try to rush that line and those Marines will chew us up and spit us out,” Rachael opined, then took out a hand brain. “Can anybody see the code numbers on those containers?”

“Why?” demanded Joan.

“If we know what's in them, maybe they go 'boom!'” Winter told her with a grin.

“I've got eyes on 'em,” Lewis chimed in. “Hazmat code 1138.”

Rachael punched the numbers into the hand brain and began to giggle. “Ladies, the Emperor _loves_ us! Listen to this! Ethyldichlorosilane, causes serious bodily harm, corrosive in liquid or gas form, highly flamable and explosive under most ambient tempratures. Explosively reacts with water and releases hydrogen chloride and phosgene gases when burning! Vapors heavier than air, so all the nasty should stay down there.”

“Emperor's eyes, what are they using this stuff for?!” demanded someone.

“Who cares,” Joan snapped. “Visors down and locked, ladies, we don't want to breathe any of that! Tamura, give me a nice long burst so those heretics know where we are. Hunter, you and Lewis be ready!” The heavy bolter Sister made sure of her weapon, then nodded at Joan. “Throw it!

“The Emperor Protects!” the squad shouted with one voice as Tamura ran up to the crest of the hill and leveled the belt fed heavy bolter. It roared, spitting lines of tracers so fast it seemed to be a continuious beam of light. The container buckled under the blows of an unseen fist, the burst in a bright red orange fire ball that climbed up into the sky like a small mushroom cloud. The entire camp was engulfed in the fireball and dozens of sympathetic detentations went off like the largest Empire Day Celebration this world had ever seen. A few of the militiamen who were furthest from the initial blast staggered from the flames, completely engulfed in fire themselves and fortunately far enough away that their screams did not reach them.

None of that mattered, because striding out of the blast, like unstoppable levithans came the Traitor Marines. They were walking, as if contemptious of the Sisters of Battle. Tamura brought the stream of bolters down to rake one, covering him in explosions. Then one of the bolter rounds found a weak point in his armor and blew his right arm off. Immediately, the remaining Marines decided to take the threat seriously, taking up their own bolter rifles and firing.

Two rounds found Tamura's heavy bolter, destroying it, while a third clipped her armored shoulder pad and knocked her backwards. “Now!” Joan shouted and the rest of the squad opened fire. Most concentrated on the wounded Marine, but Lewis's Meta blast caught him as well. The squirt of super high temperature plasma pierced the weakened armor effortlessly, plowing a fifteen centimeter hole through the chest of the armor, and then the reactor backpack behind it. The little fusion plant imploded as it critically failed and the Marine was reduced about a fifth of his mass in the resultant explosion.

The destroyed armor fell over, its occupant very, very dead.

Hunter's blast was low, blowing the leg off of her target, but, that didn't take him out of the fight. Far from it. The remaining traitor began to run at the ridge, a bolter in one hand, a chain sword in the other. Rachael's bolter locked open and she frantically swapped the magazine as Lewis, next to her, was chanting, “Come on, come on,” over and over at her Melta Gun, waiting for the coil to recharge for another shot.

Back in the fight, Rachael concentrated her fire on the wounded Marine, who was _still_ coming, who she hoped she could remove from the fight. “Got it! Eat this, Traitor!” Lewis shouted, as she stood, but at the last second, the charging Marine revealed he had a jump pack on his armor and shot up into the sky. Lewis' shot missed, while Hunter's blast entered the lame Marine's helmet and exited his groin.

“Shit!” Lewis shouted right as the Marine came down on her, chainsword first. The Ceremite dented, then gave way as the Marine, his armor and entire weight came down with it, shoving the weapon into Lewis' stomach. The Marine needlessly reved the motor, spraying blood and vicera everywhere, but Lewis was long dead at that point. Rachael spun, trying to bring her rifle up, but the Marine back handed her with his own bolter knocking her ten meters sideways and the breath from her body.

Seeing Tamara struggling to rise, the bolter came back around and roared, the explosive rounds hammering into the heavy gunner until her armor failed and one exploded within her. Tamura's body fell in two, uneven pieces with a cloud of cooling blood where she had died. The Marine tossed the bolter aside and pulled his sword out of Lewis' corpse. “Ready to die, corpse whores?” he shouted.

Gasping after her breath, Rachael realized she had landed not far from where the impact of the Marine had flung Lewis' Melta Gun. She scrambled over to it, right as the coil finished charging. Rachael got her hands on it and frantically aimed it. The flash of the discharge was bright and over came the filters on her helmet for what seemed like a life time.

* * *


End file.
